


Core of Desire

by Elfqueen1955



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Bonding, Character Study, Drama, Established Relationship, M/M, Manip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfqueen1955/pseuds/Elfqueen1955
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took a long time for James T. Kirk to finally accept and acknowledge that for him, Spock had always been his own universal constant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Core of Desire

Beta shift began trickling onto the bridge of the _Enterprise_ , as smoothly and predictably as ever. Captain James T. Kirk swung his legs down from the step of his command chair and rose somewhat stiffly. He resisted the urge to stretch his achy limbs and remained stationary for a brief moment, waiting for the immediacy of the discomfort to abate. Arthritis troubled him more and more over the last several years, and he frequently felt grateful that the final five year mission of the Enterprise was rapidly coming to a close. Just a few more months and he would retire, as would the ship.

Through the calling in of favors and the sheer force of his legendary charismatic personality, he’d been able to resist mandatory retirement at the age of fifty-five, stretching out more time aboard the ship he’d commanded for most of the past twenty-eight years. The time he’d spent Earthside as Admiral, Chief of Starfleet Operations and Instructor in Command Tactics at Starfleet Academy had blissfully been brief, although the termination of that post had been won at a tragically dear cost.

His replacement for shift, Lieutenant Audra Titelbaum, stood ready at the command chair, and Kirk acknowledged her with gratitude. She primly took the center seat and Kirk gingerly climbed the stairs to the upper level of the bridge deck, acknowledging the communications center replacement, Lieutenant Isfhadi, the trim, middle-aged Betazoid who had been part of the crew of the _Enterprise_ for nearly four years. Isfhadi was slightly taller than Kirk, with a silvery buzz cut, silver eyebrows and fluffy argentine moustache. Despite all the silver, Isfhadi’s complexion was smooth, strangely youthful, with no perceptible crinkling around the wide-set brown eyes.

“Captain,” he greeted Kirk warmly. With a half-smile, Kirk nodded. The turbolift doors opened and he waited for the several Beta shift staff to disembark,canting his head in an official manner to each, and slowly walked inside the lift.

“Deck Five,” he ordered, with a trace of fatigue to his tone. Oftentimes now, he noticed a little ruefully, he felt tired at shift's end, more so than he could recall having felt in a long time.

Retirement beckoned, and Kirk felt a covert sweetness within at the knowledge that very soon his life would become drastically different.

It would be a difference he’d earned over the past nearly three decades, hard fought for and hard won. The deepest joy would be that he would not be facing that retirement alone.

He entered his quarters, oddly feeling not quite as fatigued as he had on the bridge.

His first thought was that the cabin's temperature felt a little cool, and he called out to the computer, ordering adjustment to the thermostat. Generally the quarters he shared with Spock was quite warm, in deference to the Vulcan’s metabolic requirements, and over the past few years Kirk had come to enjoy the higher ambiance. Doctor McCoy had suggested the extra warmth would benefit Kirk’s arthritis, the ache in his rotator cuff that had exacerbated over the past twenty-five years, since the incident on Thermodon IV. He suffered from arthritis in his right knee and left wrist as well, the stiffness often painfully invading the fingers in his left hand,damage again sustained on Thermodon IV.

Kirk slowly unfastened his uniform blazer, shrugging it off and letting it fall silently to the floor, reaching up and undoing the wide collar of the ivory-colored shirt he wore beneath it. Running a hand through blunt, nickel-frosted curls, he walked over to the computer at his workstation and began scanning through, checking mail and messages that always seemed to pile up at the end of each twelve hour shift. Most of it was jetsam, meaningless updates on routine matters. Nothing cataclysmic, to be sure.

He grunted softly as he bent down to unzip his boots, straightening slowly and pushing each boot down with the opposite toe. He kicked them off finally, leaving them where they lay a short distance from the workstation. A winking light blue signal caught his eye, alerting him to a “Captain’s Eyes Only” communiqué`. He peered at it intently and felt around on the desk for his eyeglasses. He kept two sets, one in the pocket of his uniform blazer, and the other always at the ready, there on top of the desk.

Seating himself, he donned the eyewear and clicked onto the control for the private message. It flared to life, and he smiled.

“I miss you, my Own.”

Spock. As always. Everyday the little message was there, at the end of every shift. Kirk ran his fingertips lightly over his lips. _Ah, Spock._

He stood up and gave in finally to the deep stretch he’d been craving ever since the end of his shift. He groaned a little, partially in discomfort and partially in relief. A warm bath might be the ticket, some ethanol and perhaps an anti-inflammatory. Lately McCoy had been prescribing a wonderful anti-inflammatory that came in suppository form, claiming it would kill two proverbial birds with one proverbial stone. Kirk was at an age where suppositories had become a semi- regular necessity and the anti-inflammatory agent contained within these in particular was sort of icing on top of the cake. Proverbially speaking.

He pulled his uniform tunic free of his trousers and unfastened the clasp of the waistband, taking a deep breath. Walking over to the little bar on the far side of the cabin, he snooped around, searching for the right beverage. Taking a glass from underneath where they were neatly stored, he stood in deep thought. Not brandy, not tonight. Something lighter…Tranya…with a dash of Vermouth. Not exactly deadly, but lighter on the stomach than brandy, to be sure.

As he began mixing his drink the door to the cabin parted. Kirk turned at the sound and smiled as his bondmate strolled in, regal as always.

Spock, at sixty-four, stood ramrod straight and as gracefully dignified as ever. His silken ebony bangs were sparsely dusted with a hint of ashen pewter, and at his temples there was a dash more silver with a slight frosting of white mixed in. His lustrous, slanted eyebrows also sported a barely perceivable sprinkle of silver; one would have to be in extreme proximity for it to be noticed at all. His face was a little paler than in the past, but such pallor suited him, softening the deep lines and creases in what had once been a pleasing and startlingly innocent yet austere face. He maintained roughly the same weight he always had, slender, elegant and athletic all at once.

“Hey, love,” said Kirk with a beaming smile. He turned from the bar and strode over to his bondmate, embracing him warmly.

Spock kissed the captain's scalp and returned the encirclement, wrapping his long arms firmly around Kirk’s well-built form.

“Nice to see you, my heart,” Spock’s baritone, rougher than in previous years, shrouded itself like velvet around Kirk’s head, causing him to smile once more.

“Oh, and it’s so nice to see you, too.” Kirk’s voice, deeper than during younger days, actually lightened a bit, imbued with a kind of familiar joviality. They held on to one another for a long moment, disengaging with a bit of marked reluctance.

Spock unfastened his blazer and the collar to his tunic. Kirk assisted him in removing both, neatly folding them and walking over to the closet where he placed them inside on a dark wooden chest. Spock’s side of the closet was fastidiously well-organized; Kirk’s on the other hand was somewhat more chaotic,yet within regulations. Spock looked down on the floor and noted the haphazard pile of boots and blazer. He regarded Kirk with fondness, and the forbearance born of long years of close association. Over those years both men had learned to pick their battles and give into the individuality of each.

“Threvis tea?” Kirk asked sweetly, his eyes crinkling.

“Yes, thank you, t’hy’la,” replied Spock as he sat down in a comfortable chair and began to remove his boots. He stood and walked over to the closet, placing them inside, lining them up with several other matching pairs.

“Scotty finally managed to finish trimming the warp core. He says when we dock at Starbase 12 he can complete the full overhaul…and farewells can be in ship shape,” Kirk remarked as he poured a glass of cold tea for Spock, embellishing it with a tiny sprig of Terran mint.

“Good news indeed,” commented Spock, stretching his long legs in front of him. He reached up, gently accepting the glass from Kirk’s hand then with equal tenderness clasping Kirk’s opposite wrist, easing him down on his lap. Kirk smiled again.

“You’re so strong. Never fails to amaze me, even now,” he noted with a soft chuckle.

“You have become a sehlat,” Spock murmured, sipping his tea. He managed to hold the glass with one hand, while effortlessly steadying Kirk with the other. Kirk comfortably perched on Spock’s thighs.

“You’re telling me I’ve become a teddy bear,” Kirk frowned. Time and the ungoverned use of sugar had indeed shifted Kirk’s build, and while obesity was not yet a threat in any way his physique was nonetheless softer and cuddlier than it had been in quite some time. Spock ran his free hand down Kirk’s back, forming slow circles near the lower part of his spine.

“Yes,” Spock agreed. “Actually, I find it tremendously appealing.”

His brown eyes twinkled with mischief, and Kirk trailed a fingertip down the lean jaw.

“Indeed?” grinned Kirk, hazel eyes bright. At just turned sixty, James Tiberius Kirk was still more than capable of turning heads. Time and events had aged him, without a doubt. Not the golden boy he’d been even ten years ago, he was still a good-looking man, soft close-cropped curls riddled with light silver and dark gold, deep-set lion-amber eyes rimmed with lines and crinkles. He enjoyed the sun on any planet which had access to one and it showed. His face was smooth with tiny lines around the edges of his full lips, with a deep cragginess to his features. His was the face of tender beauty aged by many remarkable experiences, including harrowing sorrow. Yet when he smiled, the universe seemed to notice, and he smiled considerably more often now than ten years ago. Then he had been battered by the double loss of his only son and his bondmate, a searing devastation which he was quite certain at the time he would not be able to survive.

However, survive he did. Now were the truly golden years. More commendations, more accolades, more time on the beautiful (finally) _Enterprise_ 1701-A. More time with his life’s love, his soul’s life. His Spock, his eternal Vulcan spouse.

“So, what’s on the agenda for this evening?” Kirk asked, gently caressing the center of Spock’s chest, lightly tracing his fingertips in a meaningless, abstract pattern.

“Besides peace and quiet?” replied Spock, sipping with pronounced delicacy on the glass of cold tea.

“Yeah. Chess, perhaps?” Kirk reached up and began to sift his fingers through the Vulcan’s satin bangs.

“Perhaps.” Spock finished the tea and Kirk took back the empty glass, rising from the Vulcan's warm lap.

“Perhaps? Doesn’t sound too enthusiastic.”

Kirk returned the glass to the bar and slid his trousers down and off. Clad in white T-shirt and black undershorts he stretched again, groaning a bit breathlessly.

“You seem a bit stiff, my love. Come here,” invited Spock, a trace of concern darkening his pale face. Spock had none of the usual complaints of middle age; his eyesight was as sharp as ever, he suffered neither somatic anomalies nor the least slowing of organic function. As a Vulcan he was just shy of middle age, the equivalent to a human being in his early forties. The only noticeable physical concession to advancing years was the cragginess of his features and that nuanced silver dusting of his hair. Even that was dictated more by his human DNA than Vulcan, for Vulcans did not begin to visibly age until well past their centenary year.

“I’m going to page Bones in a minute…just to help me a little bit with this,” Kirk offered as he ambled over to his bondmate. During what passed for the ship's day, when his energy level was at its highest, Kirk strode with a lively step, alert and sharp. It was only at shift’s end that his aches and pains caught up with him, and his vigor dropped, often precipitously.

Spock reached up and drew the human down to his lap again. He began, with firmness, to massage Kirk’s arms and hands. Kirk threw back his head and sighed deeply, closing his eyes, enjoying the relief provided by that therapeutic massage.

After a few moments he placed his hands over Spock’s, effectively interrupting the comforting reflexology.

“No more?” asked Spock, concern again tightening his voice, albeit imperceptibly.

“No. No more,” Kirk affirmed. He leaned against Spock’s chest, inhaling the Vulcan’s scent.

“Tired?” asked Spock, lightly squeezing the back of Kirk’s neck.

“No…well, maybe a little.” 

Kirk moaned softly as Spock’s hand tightened a bit more and moved in a motion somewhat akin to efflourage. It felt good, sending waves of oxygenated blood to his brain.

They remained that way for some time. Kirk sat up and gazed at Spock.

“That really does feel awfully good,” he smiled, lightly kissing Spock on the dry Vulcan lips. Spock returned the kiss, easing his hand down from the beloved neck.

“I am gratified, Jim,” he observed. Kirk stood and after a moment Spock also rose. He still wore his uniform trousers and white t-shirt. Kirk crossed the cabin to their closet and as its doors slid open, reached in and retrieved Spock’s black meditation robe.

“Get comfortable. I think we’re in for the night, yes?”

He strode back to where Spock quietly stood and offered the garment. Spock pulled off his t-shirt and unfastening his trousers, slid them down and stepped out of them. He then shucked his black briefs and stepped out of those as well. He accepted the robe from Kirk, who stooped down and gathered the discarded garments, tossing them into the recycler.

Kirk watched, affection softening his expression, as Spock unfurled the meditation robe, preparing to step into it. No matter how many times he’d seen Spock nude, he never tired of the sight of the lean musculature, the generous covering of black hair across the chest and down the torso, the springy obsidian curls at the groin. He folded his arms across his own chest, with a provocative smile, negating his head in mock wonderment.

Spock returned the gaze as he hesitated before stepping into the robe and slowly drawing it up his long body. He painstakingly fastened the closures one by one and walked over to the computer, seating himself with quotidian grace at the desk.

“I got your message,” Kirk mentioned, again with a smile. Spock looked up at him and returned the expression.

“It seemed important for me to send it at the time,” he stated. Kirk nodded in agreement.

“Every day,” he remarked, with fondness. “Every day for twenty-six years. Or nearly every day.”

There had been several years in between when the message had not been sent, when Spock went away to Gol for nearly three years, for example, and the horrific six months when Spock lay dead yet regenerating on the Genesis planet. Those had been years of unbearable suffering for Kirk, times when he had actually considered ending his very life, accidentally on purpose if not with outright deliberation.

Yet, he had persevered.

While Spock checked his messages and mail, Kirk strode over to the A/V unit and activated it. Music began to softly drift throughout the cabin.

Kirk sat down in his favorite chair and stretched his legs in front of him. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the chair’s back.

“ _I’m a fool to want you…. I’m a fool to want you… To want a love that can’t be true… A love that’s there for others, too… I’m a fool to hold you Such a fool to hold you To seek a kiss Not mine alone To share a kiss the Devil has known… I’m a fool to want you… Pity me I need you… I know it’s wrong, it must be wrong But right or wrong I can’t get along…without you…”_

Spock disengaged the computer and walked over to the chair. He knelt down beside itand touched Kirk’s hand with a fingertip, stroking it idly. Kirk opened his eyes and smiled at him.

“Billie Holiday,” intoned Spock. He had long held a fascination with the 20th century songstress; her phrasings and the musical arrangements of her work were mathematically synchronous. The lyrics of many of her songs held deep meaning for him, and certainly the one playing now held quite a resonance for the two of them.

“Yeah,” murmured Kirk. He gazed at the Vulcan for some time. The lyrics told a story, one that was extremely personal for both himself and his bondmate. The endless wrangling, year after year, Kirk’s “infidelities” (always in the name of Starfleet business, he’d continuously explained to Spock), the obsessive lure they both held for one another, their hunger for mutual companionship, the raw, yearning need for emotional fulfillment between the two of them. It had been wrong until Starfleet relaxed its regulations and permitted the bonded pair to serve simultaneously aboard the _Enterprise,_ the fathomless horror of separation, the bitterness of a reunion that seemed not to work so well.

This ballad said so very much about their dual realities.

Spock placed both of his hands in Kirk’s, rising and pulling the man up with him. Embracing Kirk firmly, he began to sway gently to the orchestrations of the late, great Ray Ellis. Kirk buried his face in Spock’s neck, bestowing a diminutive kiss there. Spock held Kirk tighter still, one hand pressing firmly against the saddle of Kirk’s back, the other clutching his shoulder, Spock’s arm beneath Kirk’s armpit, wrapped around him almost painfully.

They continued to sway, Spock tenderly pivoting Kirk around and around in a languid almost hypnotic motion. His pelvis was pressed to Kirk’s, his groin crushing against it. Kirk could feel Spock hardening under his meditation robe, and gently sighed as his own erection filled in response to his bondmate’s.

“ _…I can’t get along…without you…”_

The piece was beginning to wind down, the lush arrangements softly fading in the background. Kirk pressed his lips to Spock’s throat, rubbing his nose against the prominent Adam’s apple. Spock ground powerful fingertips into Kirk’s resilient flesh, moaning faintly.

The music stopped and so did they. They stood soldered together in the middle of the cabin.

“T’hy’la,” murmured Spock, a grateful expression to his voice. They continued to stand there, silently, holding on as though for dear life. Finally Kirk looked up.

“So.”

“Yes?” replied Spock, solemnly.

“What do you want to do?” Kirk squeezed Spock around the middle.

“What do _you_ want to do, Jim?”

They remained as they were, swaying a little. Finally, Spock relinquished his hold on Kirk and gingerly grasping the hem of his husband's t-shirt with both hands, began gliding it upwards.

“Oh…is _this_ what you want to do?”

Kirk’s half-smile was seductively persuasive. He lifted his arms above his head and the t-shirt briskly made its way up and over. Spock then did the unthinkable. He crumpled the t-shirt and tossed it off to the side of the cabin, where it landed on the floor near the workstation. Kirk glanced at Spock with surprise in his wide amber eyes and peered down at the discarded garment.

“Whoa,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. Things seemed to be getting serious, rather quickly. He looked up at Spock, a lop-sided smirk widening across his face.

“You feel okay?” he asked in facetious concern, reaching up and palming Spock’s forehead. The Vulcan looked down on him in mock seriousness, an actually playful gleam in his liquid cocoa eyes. He raised an eyebrow.

“I am well, my Own,” he replied, his voice deeper and rougher than it had been when he first entered the cabin.

“Oh, well, that’s good,” said Kirk, brightly.

Spock raised his hand to Kirk’s face, lightly stroking the cool human cheek with the pad of his thumb. As the fondling progressed, the thumb became heavier. Spock kissed Kirk lightly on the forehead, then the eyelids, and seamlessly moved his mouth down to Kirk’s.

Passion between the two men had not ebbed with time. Their shipboard duties ranged from the mundane to the intense, and for the most part there was seldom time for more intimacy than sleeping together wrapped in one another’s arms. Shore leaves were the greatest blessing and they maximized their time together.

In younger days they had boundless energy, and no matter how long and concentrated their shifts had been they seemed to constantly be engaged in fairly brisk erotic activity, generally every night before going to sleep, sometimes early the morning after. Afternoon delights were a rarity, but not altogether unheard of. They maintained a tightly controlled professional demeanor, only twice in twenty-six years breaking the rules and finding a way to fall upon one another in a relatively inappropriate place.

Once in a Jefferies tube, once in the dressing room of the gym. On both occasions they'd been incredibly fortunate, managing somehow to evade discovery.

Subsequent to their bonding, which occurred eight months after Spock’s aborted marriage on Vulcan, everyone on board knew; the brass at Starfleet Command knew; Kirk’s mother knew, Spock’s parents knew.

The Klingon Empire knew.

Their problems did not begin in earnest until after the bonding, and what Spock had naively believed would be the relationship of the century frequently creaked and groaned and encountered tremendous and stultifying difficulty remaining afloat. Most of that had to do with Kirk. He was often woefully immature, and despite his best intentions did not make a good husband. He was better at being a lover. Commitment grated him, although his sincere love for and near obsession with Spock never wavered, not for an instant. It just seemed that making adjustments to being bonded was far more challenging than he had anticipated, as Bones had warned him it would be.

Not until Spock re-enlisted during the V-ger crisis did reality hit Kirk square in the eye and he suddenly grew up at the age of forty-three and from that time forward became Husband Adept. Infidelity ended without a struggle, and love came like a rushing rapid, buoying them, cleansing them, fortifying them and carrying them forward for many years, until the horrific final confrontation with Khan Noonian Singh and the tragic results of that doomed encounter unfolded.

That was behind them now. Spock was restored, he refitted his life, and the bond was stronger than ever. They were happy now, finally, at last, only the effects of aging on Kirk affected their lives, and that but to a minimal degree. Kirk was at peace with his age, looked forward to many more years with his bondmate, longed for the relinquishment of the mantle of command and truly, sincerely hoped for it to transpire at last.

Lovemaking was as fierce and passionate as ever, simply not as abundant and ubiquitous as in the early years, when they literally fucked like rabbits, climaxing every time. Kirk began a regimen of Ectatoxanate, a vasodilator prescribed to men who suffered from intermittent erectile dysfunction. He’d taken it for about nine months, roughly four years earlier, when he was fifty-six. He didn’t seem to need it anymore, never had any more bouts of ED. He could achieve orgasm at least twice in a twenty-four hour span, occasionally three times, especially if he were drunk or somewhat manic, which was not unheard of. His depressions and moodswing had abated with time, as had his quicksilver temper. He was pretty much an easygoing sort these days, fulfilled and content, full of love, love overflowing.

Spock glided his thumbs up and down Kirk’s ribcage and leaning forward, rubbed his angular face against Kirk’s fuller visage. Kirk put his hands to the waist of his shorts but Spock halted him.

“Allow me,” he suggested in a mysteriously feral tone. Kirk nodded in assent, and gently kissed Spock on the closed mouth. Spock slid the boxers down over Kirk’s ample hips, the full thighs, until Kirk lifted his stocking-clad feet and stepped out of them.

Nude now except for the socks, Kirk kissed Spock on the lips again until the Vulcan’s lips parted. The kiss was more familiar than passionate, but within a few minutes it ramped up, significantly more tongue-dueling involved. Presently,they both drew back and peered at one another, gazes locked.

“Okay,” exhaled Kirk. “So…what do you want to do?”

Spock tilted his head to the side and regarded Kirk idly. Leisurely he slid his open palms up and down Kirk’s arms, tightly gripping the hands, releasing them and grazing his palms over Kirk’s sternum. He found the pallid roseate nubs and fondled them lightly with his thumbs, flicking them rhythmically, pinching them with delicacy, bidding them to harden and peak. Kirk licked his lips, smiled enigmatically and moaned. As he closed his eyes, their lashes shadowed his cheekbones.

“What, my heart,” murmured Spock against Kirk’s temple,“do _you_ want to do?”

Kirk opened his eyes and looked directly into Spock’s. He looked at him for a long time, his hazel eyes becoming bright green beneath the long, dark gold lashes which in his youth had earned him the unwanted appellation of “beautiful.”

“I want to do whatever you want to do, baby. Just one request, though,” he stated unequivocally, his voice like velvet, soothing and unambiguously seductive. He held his arms by his sides and pressed his now indisputably erect cock against the bulge beneath Spock’s meditation robe.

Spock regarded him with interest.

“Don’t be so nice tonight.”

Spock gazed at him, lifting his hand to Kirk’s jaw, lightly stroking it with a febrile palm.

“Meaning?” Spock asked, knowing already what Kirk meant, but adroitly seeking clarification of Kirk’s sultry request.

“You know what I mean. Don’t be so fucking nice tonight.”

Kirk looked Spock directly in the eye. _That’s it, love. Don’t treat me like an old man. I’m stronger than what you think. I don’t want nice—not tonight…_

 _Whatever happens between us furing the next few hours, my Own, is all about love,_ Spock replied through the link.

He undid the fastenings of the meditation robe, and shrugged. Within a nanosecond he was nude, glistening with scant perspiration. He caressed Kirk’s now-straining cock with his own. Kirk’s respiration quickened, and he closed his eyes. He began to remember the first time they’d used that code word, “nice.”

_Thermodon IV_

It was described as the party of the year. The post-wedding reception of Lieutenant April Hastings and Lieutenant AkiroYamada of the starship _Enterprise_. Captain Kirk had performed the ceremony on board and the wedding reception was timed to coincide with shore leave on Thermodon IV, a lush tropical planet frequented by Starfleet personnel as a recreational haven. April Hastings worked in Engineering, had served since Kirk first took command two and half years earlier, Akiro Yamada was assistant chief of Interstellar Physics. Serving under Christopher Pike, Lt. Yamada had been on the _Enterprise_ nearly twelve years. There was a brief reception on board, and everyone began in shifts to beam down to Thermodon IV for what promised to be the ultimate social event of the season.

The newlyweds had booked a club called Meteor’s Arc in the capital city of T’m’rus, in the southwestern quadrant of the planet. T’m’rus was an ancient city, once overpopulated its population was now controlled. It boasted a bustling economy in certain sections, a zero negative economy in others. Portions of the municipality were run-down and blighted whereas the rest of the capital was stunningly rebuilt. T’m’rus also featured a remarkably thriving cultural hub, with shopping, plays, clubs and myriad other entertainments making it a center for tourism, mostly from Starfleet personnel and the personnel of other Federation branches of government.

Meteor’s Arc was a designer club, large enough to accommodate an enormous gathering, yet designed to appear cozy and intimate. The ceilings were of average height, and the lighting was paneled into the ceilings, walls and floors, giving it a spacious yet very compact feeling. The entertainment system was state of the art. The owners had received several awards for the design and many celebrities and dignitaries were known to frequent the venue. In short, it was an awesome choice for the reception to end all receptions.

The club was situated in what was known as the Alpha Zone, an area of T’m’rus which straddled the blighted Astara district and that of the sumptuous North Highland, two utterly dissimilar communities. For the Hastings-Yamadas to have even successfully booked it was a major coup, and the entire ship seemed thrilled to be attending the most talked about gathering that anyone could remember since the inauguration of the Chief Advisor to the Farian Hegemony, two and a half solar years earlier.

Kirk and McCoy beamed down together, with Spock declining. Spock had attended the festivities on board, deciding that he had fulfilled his social obligation toward his newlywed shipmates. Kirk was terribly disappointed at Spock’s reticence to attend the club gathering. He’s begun more and more to generally feel out of place without Spock at his side, and since they had initiated dating a few months before, it seemed quite natural to him that wherever he went, Spock should be there, too.

The “dating” started about two months after Spock’s abruptly terminated betrothal ceremony on Vulcan. The strong feelings the two had been experiencing for nearly a year and a half before then surfaced powerfully after Kirk’s “resurrection” following his “accidental” death at Spock’s hands during the failed _koon-ut-kalifee_ , and the two had agreed to start seeing one another. Despite the almost overwhelming sexual attraction between them, they decided to be reasonable and follow Bones’ advice to take things slowly.

Most of the ship had some awareness that the two were somewhat involved with one another, but there was at that time no consummation of their newly acknowledged feelings.

The physical aspect was confined to petting, kissing and, as McCoy had put it, “making cows’ eyes” at one another as surreptitiously as possible. They were treading lightly on what was essentially a highly combustible situation, in which there were no guidelines and the only diagram they had to chart their way through dating was the “tomcat” map of James T. Kirk. None of this bode well for any sort of viable future.

However, the basics were taken care of: They had confronted the fact of their feelings and admitted to them, and they had acknowledged not only their mutual love but its concurrent sexual attraction as well.

Kirk had taken extra time that evening to pay special attention to his grooming, and fairly glowed golden by the time he’d reported to the transporter room. Instead of wearing a dress uniform as he had done for the marriage ceremony and immediate reception on board, he was garbed in civilian gear: A body hugging silk shirt of pale green and tight black trousers with low-heeled high-topped black brushed hide boots. The sea mist green played dramatically off of his eyes, making them appear more verdant than their frequent golden. The shirt was low-cut, V-necked. He started to wear a delicate-filigree tridyllium chain around his neck, but at the last minute decided it looked sort of trashy and flamboyant and changed his mind on that one.

Bones appeared in the transporter room wearing a distinctive white tunic with black satin piping on the cuffs and black uniform trousers and boots. He was in rare form, looking very much forward to the proceedings. He wouldn’t be able to stay long, and he wouldn’t be drinking as much as he’d like to since he was splitting a shift with Doctor M’Benga who would transport down when Bones transported up.

This was going to be a night to remember. The Hastings-Yamadas were popular and well-liked and served long and well aboard the _Enterprise_. They were family, and the club would be swollen with a huge number of well-wishers and friends. After nearly five months worth of star-mapping and a nauseating number of “milk-runs”, the crew was fairly jumping for some release and excitement and this event could not have come about at a more fortuitous time.

_Meteor’s Arc_

***

The club was filled with soft and hazy aqua blue lighting which illuminated both the floor and the ceiling, the track lighting in the walls was a diffuse rose. Beverages ran the ethanol gamut from Saurian Brandy, a variety of Terran liquors, including real whiskey, and Romulan Ale, which was not illegal on Thermodon IV. The music was excruciatingly loud, with a heart-stopping bass line and an eerie reed and woodwind sound that was popularized by Andorian “house” music. It was looking more and more like the best of the best of the social gatherings the ninth quadrant ever had to offer.

Kirk sat at the newlywed’s family table, and thoroughly enjoyed himself. He seemed to be more the center of attention than the newlyweds themselves, generating enthusiastic backslapping and handshakes from everyone who stopped by to congratulate the Hastings-Yamadas. April Hastings-Yamada’s three sisters were there, doe-eyed and buxom. Their lineage was an amalgamated Terran family of Africans and French, long affiliated with Starfleet. Both parents had served in ‘Fleet, as well as several first cousins. Akiro Yamada had his older brother, also ‘Fleet, and four non-commissioned cousins at the table. McCoy sat beside the captain, knocking back several whiskeys despite the fact that he would be reporting back on duty in less than two hours.

The music changed to a challenging bass line with a high piping wail like a Terran tenor saxophone blasting through the club. It was an extremely “hot” dance number, popularized throughout the galaxy by an Andorian eclectic house band, and as soon as it started up an enthusiastic whoop went through the club as virtually everyone converged upon the dance floor. Kirk danced first with one of April’s sisters, then with an older woman with a knockout figure who wantonly insinuated her body against his as they gyrated to the intoxicating and sensuous music.

He sat down and ordered another Romulan ale, glancing at McCoy as he did.

“Where’s your other half?” McCoy yelled in Kirk’s ear.

“This is not exactly his style, Bones,” replied Kirk, mirthful yet serious at the same time. He looked around at the dancers; virtually everyone in the club was on the dance floor now. The musical number was painfully long, with many dancers opting to leave the floor in order to seek hydration and respite for bursting lungs.

A tall, slender man approached the newlywed table and bent low beside Kirk. The captain looked up at him, straining to hear what he was saying, then looked over at Bones with an enormous grin. Bones smiled and shrugged, and Kirk stood and took the man’s hand. The man led the captain up a short flight of stairs to a deck flooded in soft aqua light and began to undulate energetically in time to the incessant bass of the music.

Kirk grinned and lifted his arms above his head, mirroring his partner’s sensuous gyrations and bouncing rhythmically, his feet wide apart. His partner was related to Lieutenant Yamada, tall, tanned, dark-haired and lithe. He smiled enigmatically at Kirk and the two began to rock their hips in time to the thrumming beat. The man then lifted his arms above his head and insinuated his torso against Kirk, lowering his arms in semblance of an embrace, although his arms were actually held apart from Kirk’s body. The music hit a frenzied crescendo and the crowd began to whoop loudly. His partner put his hands lightly on Kirk’s hips and spun him around so that Kirk’s back was to his partner’s front.

It seemed as though every dancer on the floor was twitching their rear ends rhythmically, bending slightly forward at the waist in imitation of a familiar sexual position. Kirk followed suit, his eyes closed, his head thrown back. At that point he was full of four six-ounce Romulan ales.

His mind, it was clear to see, was quite simply gone.

Bones looked up at the elevated dance floor, intently observing his young captain. Kirk was beautiful, drunk beyond measure, but beautiful. His mouth was open, his eyes were closed, and as he rocked his rear end against his partner’s groin, he placed his hands on his bent knees and bounced vigorously in time with the powerful bass line of the music.

 _My god, Spock. Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?_ the physician thought, admiring the sensuality and charisma of his magnetic commanding officer.

The dance number ended abruptly with a shrieking cacophony of all the instruments involved, and the club seemed to explode with applause and whoops. Kirk turned to his partner and they laughed and embraced. The other man continued to hold both of Kirk’s hands as he smiled and talked. Kirk smiled, too, then shook his head in affable negation and softly pulled his hands away from the man. The two of them laughed uproariously, and parted. Kirk staggered down the stairs and found his way back to the newlywed table. He plopped heavily down in a chair next to McCoy.

“Quite a workout there, eh, Jim?” jostled McCoy, cheerfully. Kirk nodded in assent and coughed a little.

“I’m glad I’m in shape, Bones,” he chuckled. His face was flushed and his eyes were sparkling gold.

“You are somethin’ else, Jimbo,” murmured McCoy, regarding his captain with fondness.“Somethin’ else, indeed…”

Kirk laughed uproariously, dissolving into a hearty chortle. Another round of Romulan ale was ordered by someone and when the waiter set down the tray, Kirk quickly grabbed a tall glass. The blue beverage was served straight up, no rocks. It was pure ethanol enhanced by a mysterious sparkling herb found only on Chi’Rihan. It was the strongest known intoxicant in the galaxy and was illegal on most Federation-affiliated worlds. Somehow Thermodon IV had managed to circumvent that prohibition by joining a consortium of planets allied by a drive to provide their entertainment communities an incentive to compete for the galactic entertainment-industry credit. Thus, legally purchasable Romulan ale.

“You’re going to be sleeping for a long time tomorrow, Jim,” laughed McCoy.

“Yeah, well, that’s why I scheduled myself for Delta shift,” giggled Kirk, grinning with unbridled glee at McCoy.

 _No matter what, the charisma never seems to fade,_ he thought. He patted his captain with fondness on the back.

“Well, I hate to drink and run,” said the physician, “…but my pumpkin awaits.”

Kirk sipped delicately at his drink and looked up at McCoy.

“April and Akiro,” called McCoy, loudly over the din of enthusiastic party-goers and deafening music, “congratulations to you both, not just on your nuptials but on an outstanding celebration as well.” He lifted his glass of whiskey as a toast, and chased it with a glass of Antarean champagne. The couple applauded in appreciation and enthusiastically thanked him for attending.

“And you, golden boy, go slow…if you dare,” McCoy whispered into Kirk’s ear.

Kirk saluted him with the less than half full glass of blue ale and smiled broadly.

“Love you, man,” he laughed. McCoy smiled and shook his head, then picked his way through the crowd to the transporter pad on the far side of the club.

***************

Kirk finished his seventh Romulan ale of the evening. He’d never been a heavy drinker. Perhaps two or three times a week he met with Bones after shift for a brandy, always one, never two. At just under 5’9”, or just a little more than 5’81/2”, his current weight a trim one hundred and fifty-five pounds, the amount of ethanol he had ingested over a four hour period was far in excess for his size. In between Romulan ales he had also taken in several glasses of champagne, Antarean, Terran and Rigellian varieties, and at least three times had stepped “out back with the boys” for a couple of hits of Andorian cannabis, which was legal (as was the Terran variety)on Thermodon IV. The Andorian type was frighteningly intense, augmenting well-being to an almost psychotic degree. It was popular with insecure people during social occasions, and many unsure individuals around the galaxy utilized it to enhance sexual response.

James Tiberius Kirk, at that point was, quite frankly, rather toasted.

Another frenetic dance number came up and for the eighth time in as many hours he accepted a dance invitation from a male party-goer, this one a somewhat muscular African man of similar age and build. The dancing went from sexy to hot to downright nasty, as his partner groped him between the legs, held onto his ass and wiggled savagely against his belly. Kirk appeared to revel in this kind of dancing, not so much because he enjoyed it but because he was stinking drunk and only vaguely aware of what he was actually doing. A small throng had gathered around the frenzied duo and was spiritedly encouraging them with clapping hands, whistles and loud whoops.

Ironically, the African dancer was Starfleet, serving not aboard the _Enterprise_ but aboard the _Grissom_. His name was Lieutenant Roshon Delisle, and he had served as science officer aboard the _Grissom_ for as long as Kirk had been in command of the _Enterprise_. He was a Californian, highly decorated for science proficiency and astrophysics, as well as for courage under fire and bravery. He was about as inebriated as Jim Kirk, and like the young captain had only a dim awareness of how outrageous his behavior was.

They were at it like animals. Delisle was caramel gold in coloring, and wearing a skin tight black button down shirt and white trousers with black thigh-high boots. Kirk of course was pink and golden, his exposed chest glistening with perspiration and his dark blond hair plastered to his skull by moisture. They were dancing doggy-style, eyes closed and heads thrown back, mouths agape, a dance that looked like so much more.

Finally the number ended and the crowd applauded and whistled and catcalled for several, long and delirious minutes. Delisle embraced Kirk passionately and pecked him wetly on the cheek. They promised to stay in contact, and Kirk sent his regards to _Grissom_ ’s captain, Florian Domenico.

Kirk looked around, debating on one more drink, then realized he needed to urinate and right away. He floated off to the lavatory and splashed cold water on his face several times, ran a wet hand through his hair, and tried not to stagger into the corridor outside of the rest areas. He patted his communicator and pulled it out.

“ _Enterprise_ ,” he slurred. The chirp was promptly answered.

“Patch me through to Mister Spock, please.” A moment to try and focus and then,

“Spock here.”

Kirk smiled warmly.

“Hey,” he replied, his smile broadening.

.“Jim? Is everything alright?”

The familiar concerned baritone resonated through Kirk’s chest, almost like a pain.

“I called…to say…” Kirk looked around. The party showed no signs of letting up.

“Jim? Are you there?” Deeper concern.

“Yeah, Spock. I’m here. I’m…here…”

Peering in through the entranceway he could see Akiro taking April in his arms as a slow, romantic dance number began, with numerous other couples following suit. Kirk sighed.

“I just called to tell you…I miss you, Spock,” he replied quietly. There was a span of silent seconds.

“I see.”

“Do you…miss me?” Kirk’s tone was even quieter now. Again the span of silent seconds.

“Yes, Jim. Of course I miss you.”

Silence again.

“Are you sure you are well? Are you…enjoying the celebration?”

Kirk observed the measured swaying of the couples on the dance floor. There were all kinds of couples, young and old, opposite gender, same gender. His eyes came to rest on one of the same gender couples. They were males, holding tightly to one another, barely swinging to the gentle, smooth, slow music.

“I’m having the time of my life, Spock. Really. I just wish you were here with me, that’s all.”

Brief silence, then, “Your speech is slurred. You have been partaking of intoxicants…” The First Officer’s tone seemed judgemental.

“Ah-ah-ah, Spock. Shellibrating….not drinking…shellibrating…” A subdued burp, followed by a throaty, suggestive chuckle.

Spock sighed gently on the other end.

“Jim…”

“I love you, Spock!”

Kirk leaned heavily against the wall, closing his eyes, which seemed to be burning now.

“And I cherish you as well. Very much. Will you be beaming aboard soon?”

“I think so…I think so, Spock. Will you be up, do you think?”

Kirk passed a hand across his forehead and ran the same hand through his damp hair.

“I believe so.”

“I’m coming, then. I’ll beam up shortly, alright?”

“That would be most satisfactory, Jim.”

Kirk closed the communicator and watched the dancers moving about gently on the dance floor. The aqua lighting was down and the rose lighting was up. As the music reached a tightly stringed crescendo, topped with a saxophone, a shower of little roses, pink, and white tinged with pink, floated gently down from the entire ceiling. They were live Terran roses, specially cultivated on Thermodon IV, showering the dancers from one end of the club to the other. One of the small white blossoms floated in to the outer corridor through the entranceway where Kirk stood. It landed by his feet, and he bent down and retrieved it. He cradled it in his hand, staring intently at it for several moments.

A tightly bundled group sidled by.

”We’re going outside for a bit…would you like to come?”

Their eyes were narrowed to tiny slits, apparently the Adorian cannabis crowd. Kirk smiled and declined. The little group moved off.

The fresh air as the exit door opened hit him and felt enormously refreshing. He looked down at the little white blossom cradled in his hand and decided it was time to get some fresh air, as well. He started toward the same exit as the cannabis afficionados, and hesitated, turning in the opposite direction. There it was, another neon red exit sign. The club was large and had three exits. He decided to go through the anterior. No one seemed to be congregating around the door, and a peaceful moment was what he craved, as much as the fresh air.

As he walked through the exit into the alley, the moisture came up off the asphalt and gently swatted him right in the face. It was terribly humid, and the humidity was intensified by the fact that it had rained some while the party was going on. He wasn’t aware that it had rained, the asphalt road was slick and reflected the subdued exterior lighting of the Meteor Arc as well as the buildings which surrounded it.

He walked a scant few paces toward the middle of the alleyway and stood still, inhaling the moisture thickened air. Looking up he could see the precipitation clouds parting slowly with bits of starlight beginning to shine through. In the distant horizon one of Thermodon IV’s two moons hung low in the sky, a sliver of a pale, blue crescent.

Kirk looked down at the pink-tinged white rose in his hand. He’d been holding it for awhile now, and hadn’t crushed it yet. He likened it to what he was trying to develop with Spock. Something so beautiful, so perfect, yet so fragile, so easily crushed. It had to be nurtured, cared for, encouraged, protected. His chest felt full, and his loins ached.

He missed Spock so deeply. It was time to go.

Kirk turned to walk back into the Meteor Arc, still looking up at the sky, and bumped into something---no, not something. Someone. He brought his vision forward and found himself staring up at the dark green face of a fairly tall humanoid male.

“Oh,” Kirk murmured, smiling a little. “Sorry…”

The humanoid smiled back, unnaturally white teeth filling a large, well-formed mouth. He was handsome, with slightly almond-shaped pale blue eyes.

“Whoa, be careful there…” he suggested, an unnaturally ironic tone to his deep voice. There was something feral in his expression. Kirk appraised him briefly. Not only was he tall, he was extremely muscular, wearing a short brown vest of some type of tightly woven fabric and heavy, industrial-style trousers, like those worn by certain manufacturing workers. His boots were heavy and high-topped but very flat, almost as though they had no heels whatsoever. He wore a disruptor and a communications device on his belt, situated toward his back. Kirk met the stranger’s gaze with his own.

“I’m sorry…excuse me…”

Kirk moved to go around the humanoid.

“Terran, yes?” queried the stranger, the voice gravelly and the accent somewhat guttural. He continued to hold Kirk’s gaze. Inebriated as he was, Kirk’s acute intuition kicked in with an immediacy that nearly left him breathless. Something was off here, something indefinable, but certainly menacing. The hair on the back of his neck bristled and he felt a lurching sensation in his gut.

“I…”

Before he could finish his sentence the man grabbed him hard by his upper arm. Kirk flinched and attempted to wrench his arm free, only to suddenly feel the presence of another humanoid male right behind him, as his other arm was taken now and twisted painfully behind his back. He surged forward in a defensive motion only to be backhanded across the face.

“No, no, no. Calm down, Terran…” the humanoid’s harsh voice soothed, the tone insincere, mendacious and patronizing.

The male, who Kirk now realized was of Orion descent, stepped closer and looked intently at Kirk’s face, now crimson from the slap. A tiny dot of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth and his vision doubled, then cleared. Had he not been so drunk he could’ve possibly outmaneuvered the two humanoids. He couldn’t see the one who held him, he could only smell him and feel the inhuman strength in the hands that imprisoned him.

“Oh, look what we have here, Awik,” the Orion who stood before him said as he touched Kirk’s jaw. Kirk tried to move his head back and evade the undesirable contact, but the Orion held tight.

“What a pretty, little Terran bitch!” the Orion crooned. Kirk struggled in the grip of the Orion unseen, and tried to kick backwards in an attempt at disabling the man, only to have a large, muscular hand abruptly wrap itself around his neck, the blunt fingers pressing painfully against his throat. He moaned slightly at the unexpected pain.

“Be still, bitch!” The Orion who held him immobile breathed harshly into Kirk’s ear, his breath hot and foul against his temple. Kirk willed himself to be still or risk asphyxiation.

“Yes…yes…this one’ll make us very, very rich, Awik,” sneered the Orion who stood before Kirk. He traced the shape of Kirk’s lips with a cold, dry fingertip, pulling the lower lip down with his thumb to peer at Kirk’s teeth. The humanoid holding him tightened his hold on Kirk’s wrists, pulling them agonizingly high between his shoulder blades. Kirk grunted against the searing pain. The Orion held Kirk’s wrists together with one hand, while the other hand held his throat in a brutal grip, pressing with deadly intent against his windpipe. Kirk wheezed and tried to breathe through his nose, feeling the moisture of his blood as it trickled down over his upper lip. His vision was blurring and he could hear his heartbeat hammering inside of his ears.

The Orion with the blue eyes leered at Kirk’s figure and stepping closer clutched the V-neck of his silk shirt and in one sudden motion ripped it down the front, exposing his perspiring chest to the tropical air. The alien pulled the two sides of the shirt opened further, completely baring Kirk’s chest. Dimly in the background, Kirk could hear the muted thundering bass line rhythm of the music inside the Meteor Arc.

“Well, he’s stacked, isn’t he, Awik? What pretty little tits…”

The Orion reached out and slid his fingertips lightly over Kirk’s nipples, pinching them with both hands, lightly at first, almost sensuously then hard, and harder still. Kirk groaned against the sharp and sudden pain, arching his back. He tried to kick out, but was lifted by his wrists against his back to the point where he was nearly on tiptoes. He wheezed harshly, desperate for oxygen. Panic set in; like a sudden updraft of unwieldy emotion, it filled his awareness and caused his gut to clench.

He willed himself to calm, perhaps there was a way out, some defensive trick he could employ. With his ability to breathe so compromised, however, his legs refused to cooperate; there was no way he could summon enough vigor to for a well-placed kick.

The Orion deftly glided the back of his hand down Kirk’s belly, coming to rest at his groin. He lewdly patted Kirk’s flanks, tracing the outline of his genitals. Kirk stifled a moan, and the being continued to fondle the firmness of Kirk’s involuntary erection. The Orion squeezed Kirk’s penis, seeking, finding and molesting the testicles, squeezing them brutally through the fabric of Kirk’s trousers.

Kirk tried not to struggle, but he wanted to. He wanted to so badly, he could taste it. He could also taste the blood in his mouth from the infinitesimal cut on his lower lip.

Part of his mind commanded him to die, now. Just close up, shut down vital organs and die. Self-termination on demand. At the edge of mortification, he could smell his own humiliation, recognize the briny stench of his own precipitous sweat, feel the heated trickle as it coursed down the groove of his spine, and pooled within the shell of both armpits. Terror had a taste, and it also had a name.

Rape. Rape was not wholly unfamiliar to any space explorer, Kirk had encountered its dreaded possibility on any number of occasions in the past, but he’d always been able to circumvent such a fate. Time waits for no man, certainly no Starfleet crewmember…or commander.

He swallowed hard, blinking furiously at the tears that welled in his eyes as his own spit nearly choked him. His gorge seemed narrow, almost impassible, anchored the way it was by that set of huge Orion digits, so brutally wrapped around his own squat, human neck.

The Orion’s hand insistently continued to maul Kirk, and he smiled triumphantly when the captain’s erection blossomed. There it was, the trace of nerve impulse, twitching just beneath the skin. The signal the Orion had been waiting for: his victim’s hapless arousal.

“Mmmm,” the Orion purred. “A little, pink slut…”

He slid his hand up to Kirk’s waist, inadvertently dislodging the captain’s communicator from his belt. The device fell loudly to the pavement, chirped once, was silent, and chirped again.

“Not only is he Terran, Awik, he’s also Starfleet…”

The Orion’s fingertips went to the Starfleet insignia on Kirk’s belt buckle, a surreptitiously placed identification. Even when wearing civvies, Starfleet personnel wore their insignia somewhere on their person.

“Fuck, Nyab! Talk about good fortune! Do you know how much we can get for this one? We’ll retire drowning in wealth!”

The one called Awik, who held Kirk so mercilessly in his grip, laughed harshly, loud right against Kirk’s ear, then slammed a rather slimy, hot tongue deep into his ear canal. Kirk could only grunt in protest.

“Don’t let him die, now, Awik. We need to keep him alive if we want those riches, now don’t we?”

Kirk’s stomach flipped. The Orions were a culture with little redeeming value. They had no moral code, and lived primarily by trading living beings. They bore little concern about the gender or the rank of the captives they took; sentient piracy was their way of life, it had preceded the current generation by a millennium. They were four times stronger than the most powerful human, tall and muscular. Savages with a keen mind for technology, their craft were some of the most well-designed in the known galaxy. They were called Orions because that constellation was where their homeworld was located, an icy world with an unpronounceable name and a guttural basic language, which translated easily into Standard. They remained the scourge of the known galaxy and struck fear immediately in the hearts of almost anyone who had the tragic misfortune to encounter them.

Kirk knew that as a human being, a Terran and a Starfleet commander, he would be extraordinary value to the Orion slave trade, like a much coveted prize, and that if these two miscreants managed to transport him aboard their ship, he was done for. He would never be seen or heard from again. He would spend the rest of his days as a slave, most likely in a brothel on some nether world, possibly with his mind wiped, or worse.

 _Spock!_ His mind shrieked into the link. _Spock, Spock, please!_ He could feel his consciousness fading somewhat, but he kept Spock’s image in what remained of his conscious mind.

Nyab stepped closer still and put his hands to the waist of Kirk’s black trousers. He tugged at the belt until it shredded in his hands, then stooped to retrieve the Starfleet insignia. He smiled at Kirk with despicable sweetness and stuffed the insignia into a hip pocket in his workpants, sliding his large hands up and down Kirk’s ribcage. With one hand teasing one of Kirk’s stiffly swollen nipples, stroking his thumb lightly across it, circling it around and around until the teat was engorged, its nerve endings stimulated beyond endurance, he took the other hand and pulled out the communication device he wore on his own belt. Touching a control with the tip of his thumb, he spoke rapidly and with coarse, clipped words after the device chirped.

“Three to beam up, Kilan. Give it five minutes.” He replaced the device on his belt.

“Hold him tight, Awik. We only have a few minutes to sample the goods.”

His bright eyes, pale in the dark green face which was gleaming with sweat, peered lubriciously into Kirk’s, and he pinched and twisted Kirk’s nipple so hard that the human nearly blacked out. The Orion holding him squeezed firmly against Kirk’s windpipe, ground a fabric-covered erection fiercely against Kirk’s rear and pulled even tighter on the captured wrists, wrenching them up so high they nearly lined up with his neck. Kirk’s stomach contracted and his eyes bulged. He could almost feel his rotator cuff tearing, the tendon grinding against the bone. The Orion before him gripped the waist of Kirk’s trousers and began to tug hard.

“Ever tasted a Terran before, Awik?” smiled the Orion called Nyab, holding Kirk’s defiant yet powerless glare with a seductive gaze of his own. “They’re quite succulent, you know.”

He glided two fingers down Kirk’s glistening chest and lifting them to his mouth, slid out his tongue and lapped at them greedily, then slid them between his lips, half-closing his eyes as he savored the taste. Kirk shuddered in revulsion, glowering helplessly at the insidious humanoid, humiliation stinging at the edges of his mind, his body quaking with both rage and degradation as it openly betrayed him, his nostrils quivering with naked hostility, as once again he strained against the inescapable bonds of his captor’s unflinching and tenacious hold.

“Yes, friend Nyab, I hear they taste the way they smell…like this one smells, like Altair honey,” murmured Awik, again swiping a hot tongue into Kirk’s ear, causing the captain to shudder. He captured Kirk’s earlobe between his teeth, biting gently, almost sensuously, and snickered at Kirk’s horrified, rasping whimper.

“In their Starfleet, they are trained for obedience, you see,” rejoined Nyab, inching closer to Kirk, who stood trembling against his will, held ironclad in Awik’s grasp. He tried desperately to remember Starfleet procedural training on surviving an abduction or a violent assault or, as it would seem to be imminent now, a sexual one, but his thoughts were chaotic, the ethanol he’d absorbed in the club preventing him from thinking clearly or remaining calm. He could feel an increasingly mindless terror rising in his throat, along with the bitter taste of bile, threatening to strip of him of all reason, eliminating his recall of effective tactic.

The Orion who stood before him grinned, leering hungrily with rapacious intent. He pulled Kirk by his waist directly to himself and insinuated his body against the captain’s. He pressed his face even closer and eased his frigid lips with surprising gentleness against Kirk’s, moistening those human lips tenderly with a slickened tongue.

“Mmmm, succulent…warm…” he murmured against Kirk’s opened mouth. Kirk tried to breathe but was having tremendous difficulty doing so, his respiration denied by the cold fingers compressed against his larynx.

“Awik, no, no, loosen your grip some, let the bitch breathe,” urged Nyab. He teased his tongue around Kirk’s lips, wetting them before violating his shuddering mouth. Despite the ease of Awik’s hold, and the fractional amount of air Kirk could draw in, he was still totally incapacitated, unable to turn his face away from Nyab’s insistent nuzzling.

“So pretty…hot little thing, too. Hot for me are you, Terran?” the Orion sneered, holding Kirk’s gaze with his own, slipping his fingers down beneath the partially opened waist of Kirk’s trousers, yanking them down to expose his pelvis and flanks. The Orion continued manhandling Kirk’s groin, his intentions hideously obvious as he groped him with a sickeningly edacious verve.

Kirk shut his eyes. He dimly recalled the self-defense instructor at the Academy.

“Submit to what they want,” he’d intoned sonorously. “It will increase the probability of your survival. Assess the assailant’s strength. If they can overpower you they can kill you in an instant. Resistance is strenuously discouraged, survival is optimal.”

The Orion’s hold on Kirk’s genitals increased, brutal fingers grasping Kirk’s shaft through the damp fabric of his now ruinously twisted uniform.

“Ah, that’s it, you pretty Terran swine, that’s it. Get hard for me, yes, yes, let me feel you wanting me. You want this, don’t you, you hot, filthy human bitch. Listen to the way you breathe, you want it so bad…that’s it, get it up for me so I can feel it under my hand…I’m hard for you now myself…you’ll have it soon, deep and hard up your tight Terran ass…”

Kirk ‘s eyelids fluttered helplessly against his cheek, and he squinted at his Orion captor, astonished to realize that he could only make out a whitish haze in front of him, could no longer clearly see Nyab or anything else. With his vision blurred by autonomic tears, he realized then that he was dying, could feel the chill of approaching death suffused throughout his paralyzed body, and thought to himself how logical it all was, how he had always known that someday it would come to this, death at the hands of malicious aliens on some inhospitable planet.

An endorphine surge eased his anxiety regarding his impending end, but failed to dampen three strong emotions he could not keep at bay: Regret, anger and despair. Regret, that he had not taken the opportunity sooner to come to Spock, confess his love and consummate it immediately, regret that he would never have the chance to feel the Vulcan’s heat surrounding him, feel the Vulcan’s powerful body claiming him.

Anger, ferocious outrage, primarily at the two maniacs who were taking it upon themselves to cut his young life short and for secondarily, anger at himself, for losing control in the nightclub, for misjudging so seriously the pernicious effect the Romulan ethanol would have on his ability to simply be capable of fighting back. Finally, despair. Deep, agonizing despair, that this was his time, his time at last to depart existence and embrace oblivion.

 _Spock!_ His mind called desperately as the ultimate darkness descended upon him. _Spock, I need you! Spock, please, god, please, Spock, where are you? Spock!_

His violator’s form was plastered against him, the alien breath fetid and stifling, almost corrosive against his sensitive flesh, acrid envelopment around his eyebrows, nose and mouth. He was choking from the onslaught, prepped for death, a horrific death, to be steeped in insufferable pain, his body rent asunder by that rigid and unforgiving Orion pole. His legs gave out; the only force compelling him to remain erect as that of Awik’s titanium grip, mascerating the tendons in his wrists with that relentless, inhuman strength.

He could scarcely make out the muffled sound of the rumbling, maleficient voice; his consciousness was fading so quickly and with every slow beat of his heart he could feel pounding in his ears, another sound beat at its center, the feeble sound of desperation and need.

_SpockSpockSpockSpockSpockSpockSpock_

“That’s it, Starfleet bitch…moan for me, let me hear you sing out your need…you crave my touch, don’t you, whore…soon, soon you’ll know the joy of my staff as it impales you, the magnificence of my dagger, carving your responses, slicing the pleasure right out of your…”

Suddenly, the exit door to the Meteor Arc swung open violently and two redshirted _Enterprise_ security officers leaped out, with Spock right behind them. Nyab snarled at them and batted one off of his feet, while Spock deftly covered the few feet between them to slip behind Awik and pinch his neck at the juncture of shoulder. The Orion collapsed, as did Kirk, right into Spock’s arms. The second security officer engaged the Orion Nyab, their heights and physical build were nearly identical and they were more than evenly matched. As they circled one another, Spock bellowed into his communicator for immediate beam-up.

“Transporter! Lock on, two to beam up---code gold, I repeat, code gold!”

As the dazzling multicolored sparkles of energy appeared, illuminating the dimly lit alleyway, the breeze created by the energy stream of the transporter’s rays drifted through, gently buffeting the tiny, crumpled, pristine white rosebud with its pale, pink edging, which James Kirk had dropped to the drenched blackness of the asphalt as his encounter with horror had begun.

When they materialized in the transporter room, McCoy was there with several med-techs and a nurse, an oxygen mask and a hypo filled with tri-ox compound which he instantaneously pressured against Kirk’s bicep. The captain was immediately loaded onto a mag-lev gurney and spirited away to Sick Bay, with Spock walking rapidly beside him.

Later, Kirk learned that security for the Meteor Arc joined the _Enterprise_ security officer in subduing the Orion, and a full security detail had arrested both aliens, who were detained afterward by the T’m’rus authorities.

Kirk slept in Sick Bay with Spock curled beside him, the Vulcan’s arms around him all night. For several weeks afterward, there were visible bruises around the captain’s neck and throat. The amazing good time at the reception on Thermodon IV would never be a fond memory for Kirk, McCoy or Spock.

Yet, it served as the catalyst for the next level Kirk and Spock reached as their soon-to-be intimate relationship progressed.

_Now It Begins_

***

Charges, Kirk learned, were brought against the two Orions who had assaulted him and attempted to kidnap him that spring night on Thermodon IV. He testified against them confidentially from the _Enterprise_ via comm-link. The full proceeding was entirely classified; his identity, while known to the authorities in T’m’rus, remained undisclosed to his attackers. They were convicted and immediately incarcerated in a Federation rehabilitation colony.

Spock had heard him through their mutual link that night. He had beamed down to the Meteor Arc asking for him, searching for him. Someone finally mentioned that they’d seen the captain heading toward the club’s anterior exit and Spock went through, bringing the two Enterprise security officers with him.

Kirk remained confined to Sick Bay for one full week. His injuries, though serious, were not severe although his throat was sore for nearly two weeks and for the first seven days of those two weeks he was extremely hoarse. His whispered commands were disconcerting to the crew but they dealt with it, and his voice returned by the end of the second week.

The developing closeness between Spock and the captain intensified dramatically. They were almost always together, as if afraid to be apart. Spock spent very little time in his own quarters. They embarked on a marathon chess game, which they played every evening in the captain’s quarters. When they reported to the bridge for duty, they reported together, they took all of their meals together, and at night they slept together in Kirk’s bed, clad in regulation sleepwear, which Kirk kept modestly fastened up to his neck

Spock made no comment on his commander and friend’s behavior.

McCoy counseled Kirk several times following the incident on Thermodon IV. He listened while Kirk tried to piece together his memories of the event, which were sketchy because of his inebriation at the time of the assault. He remembered the face of Nyab, very clearly, and dreamt of the man on several harrowing occasions. McCoy suggested hypnotherapy to dampen the memories, weaken them. Kirk said that he would think it over, ultimately deciding against it.

McCoy also kept an eye on the relationship between the command team. He was aware that their closeness was strengthening but was concerned about the lack of consummation between the two. He discussed it with Kirk, who dismissed it as “waiting for the right time.”

“Jim, it’s so obvious to everyone around the two of you how deeply connected the both of you are. In an adult relationship sexual expression is to be expected, you know that. It’s the way people communicate their feelings for one another.”

Kirk nodded in agreement.

“I understand that, of course, Bones. We just…I don’t know…it just isn’t the right time right now. I just need to be near him physically, that’s all. In time we both know it will happen…it’ll be okay.”

He ran his hand over his forehead, slumped in a chair in McCoy’s office. McCoy had offered him some brandy but he waved it off, briskly.

“No, no, I think I’m sort of off the hard stuff for the time being, if you don’t mind, Bones.”

McCoy smiled affectionately in his direction. What a shitty time for the assault to have happened. Jim had been so relaxed and exuberant. McCoy hadn’t seen him like that in almost ten years, not since right after he’d passed his lieutenant’s exam. Life was so damned unfair, so random. Nothing ever really made sense.

“Okay, Jim. I’m here, you know. Whenever you need me, I’m here,” McCoy said, reassuringly.

McCoy entered into his log the complete story of his captain’s injuries, which included borderline alcohol poisoning which had been treated with the emergency administration of a detoxification protocol, a sprained rotator cuff, contusions around the left cheek and beneath the left ocular socket, severe bruising of the right carpal tunnel, severe bruising of the trachea, laryngeal abrasion, and a displaced fracture in the radius of his right wrist. In addition to that, there was petechial hemorrhaging around the eyes due to the near-strangulation to which the captain had been subjected.

Upon awakening three days after having been admitted to Sick Bay’s emergency department, Kirk’s first word had been, “Mom.” He had been extremely disoriented, had no sense of time or place and expressed genuine anxiety about the whereabouts and well-being of his mother, with whom he hadn’t spoken in over a month.

“Where’s my mom? Did she make it out okay? Is she going to be alright? Can I see her? I want to see her, I want to talk to my mom!”

Having uttered those words in a tightly rasping, urgent whisper, he had closed his eyes and returned to a near-comatose state, finally emerging from nothingness forty-eight hours later. Spock had witnessed the phenomenon, one not uncommon in trauma victims, and had observed his dear friend with compassion and, McCoy noted, something else as well.

It was something profound, but hidden.

Spock spent close to two hours looking at Kirk, covered with a thermal blanket on the diagnostic bunk, his appearance wan, his face bruised, the left corner of his lower lip scabbed over. Spock noted how small and vulnerable the captain seemed, like a bird with a broken wing, waiflike and lost. McCoy mentioned, somewhere in the background of Spock’s usually attenuated hearing, that Kirk had been heavily medicated with analgesics and anesthetics, there was so much trauma generally throughout his body that in order for the healing process to even begin, the brain would have to be heavily sedated for at least thirty-six hours.

“But you know, Spock,” offered McCoy, with care, “the real trauma is hardly of a physical nature. His injuries are psychic, he’s going to be in a rather fragile state for some time. He’s going to need a lot of help dealing with the aftermath.”

That ended the discussion for the time being, and life went on aboard the _Enterprise_ as normally, or whatever passed for normally, as usual.

One evening, six weeks after Thermodon IV, Captain Kirk and First Officer Spock finished their shift on the bridge and entered the turbolift together with several other bridge personnel. Most of them got off on Deck Four, but a few remained until Deck Five, where the turbolift almost completely emptied out. Kirk and Spock ambled down the corridor, their shoulders occasionally brushing, their fingertips touching intermittently until they reached their mutual quarters. They stopped in front of the captain’s and without looking at one another, they entered.

Spock remained standing as Kirk sauntered over to his desk, glancing at his computer, flipping through for messages and mail. He sank into the chair there, and swiveled to look at Spock.

“Aren’t you going to stay, Spock?” he inquired, the expression on his face soft and open. Spock remained where he stood, his hands clasped behind his back, his face neutral, unreadable.

“If you wish,” he replied, with an unusually gentle nuance to his voice. Kirk smiled up at him, and sighed deeply. He rubbed both hands over his eyes.

“You seem tired this evening, Jim,” noted Spock. Kirk stood up and moved across the cabin, waving down the lights in the office area.

“I don’t know, Spock. Maybe I am.”

He began pulling his tunic over his head, and clad in his uniform trousers and black t-shirt, he tossed the tunic into the recycler as though making a basketball shot. He ran his hand through his hair and nodded toward the little bar he kept in his quarters.

“Refreshment?” he offered. Spock shook his head.

“Negative, Jim. I am only wondering if there is anything you need at the moment, anything, perhaps, that I can do for you?”

The utter solicitousness of his voice warmed Kirk immensely, and suddenly he felt very grateful for Spock’s companionship.

“I’m fine, Spock. Really. Everything’s okay.”

He smiled reassuringly at the Vulcan and Spock seemed to relax, fractionally.

Kirk sat down on the edge of his bunk and removed his boots and socks, tossing them halfway across the room. He gazed at his hands for a few moments, and glanced at Spock again.

“Why are you standing there? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sitting down somewhere?” He peered at Spock quizzically. The Vulcan regarded him evenly, with a somewhat enigmatic serenity about his lean but striking features.

“Where would you like me to sit, Jim?”

“Wherever you’d like, I suppose. Chess tonight?” he asked brightly.

Spock approached Kirk, gazing down at him with fondness in his dark eyes. He sat on the bunk next to Kirk and lifting his hand to the captain’s face, gently stroked his cheek.

“Perhaps later,” he replied. He continued to tenderly caress Kirk’s cheek, and Kirk closed his eyes. The touch was feather-light, so incredibly mild that Kirk likened it to the feeling of butterfly wings. He sighed and moaned very softly.

“You do know that I love you, Jim, do you not?”

Spock’s voice took on the familiar, ethereal quality that Kirk so cherished. Mysteriously numinous, as though Spock was a spirit floating above him. Kirk opened his eyes and looked into Spock’s crepuscular orbs, which seemed to have become even darker still.

“I know, Spock,” he replied. “And I love you, too…”

Spock continued to softly palpate his commanding officer’s face, unhurriedly gliding his forefinger down to Kirk’s lips, tracing the full shape of them, lightly smoothing the forefinger back and forth across the expanse of mouth.

“Jim, I wish to meld with you. May I have your thoughts?”

Kirk stared at him and paused for a few seconds before he lifted his own hand and covered Spock’s. What he actually wanted more than anything else in the entire universe at that moment was for Spock to take him in his arms and kiss him, kiss him as deeply and for as long a time as possible. There had been very little foreplay and affection between them over the past several weeks since the incident on Thermodon IV. While Spock had been ubiquitously at his side, their relationship had become virtually platonic, or perahps a shade more.

“Alright, Spock,” Kirk remarked in assent. He drew in a deep breath and sat fully erect, his shoulders back, his head lifted fractionally. Melding, he understood, fostered closeness between them. Spock had taught him that, and he harbored absolutely no apprehension whatsoever of Spock entering his mind. Kirk felt certain the process would relax him; he had to admit he’d been so tense of late, coiled like a helix on a seemingly endless loop, ready to jump at the least provocation, hardly the kind of mindset that lent itself to solid command performance.

He would welcome the soothing ministrations of a meld. He trusted Spock, with his mind, his life, his all.

Spock placed his fingertips on Kirk’s face in the traditional pattern and inhaled deeply. Within seconds they were together, delicious heat filling Kirk’s mind, a sensation of velvet and apodictic intimacy shrouding itself around his consciousness, threading in and out of his awareness, weaving a tapestry that pulled snugly at the center of his inner self.

_Do not fear me, Jim._

_I’m not afraid. I want you to be here, inside of me._

_There is trepidation, hesitation. Do not fear me. Open yourself to me._

_I will open to you, Spock. I am open, I love you…_

Spock could feel an internal trembling within Kirk’s mind. He reached in further, sending indigo and gold and an intensified warmth, a healing warmth, further into Kirk’s subconscious.

_I will never hurt you, Jim. You are my heart, open yourself to my heart._

There was no response from Kirk, only a deep sense of longing, laced with mild uneasiness. Spock knew it was the classic response of a victim. Kirk still felt acutely disturbed about what had happened to him on Thermodon IV, and had yet to resolve it. Even though McCoy had counseled him extensively and certified him fit for duty, the pain and confusion remained at the subconscious level. Kirk wrestled with it persistently and Spock knew that until he released it the two of them would not be able to press their relationship forward

_Look within and see yourself, Jim. See yourself outside of the Meteor Arc._

Spock could sense Kirk’s resistance.

_Do not be afraid, Jim. I am here. See yourself. I can see you, I can feel as you felt that night. You were thinking of me, holding a miniature white rose in your hand. You were thinking of me, thinking of us, thinking of what we were to one another._

_Yes._ Kirk remembered, smiled. He had been so intoxicated that night, nearly in an altered state. The longing he’d felt for Spock had been definitively intense, almost blindingly so.

Together they relived that night. Spock felt Kirk’s anguish at the realization that he might be permanently separated from Spock, before they had a chance to complete their relationship, consummate it, make it real. He felt Kirk’s terror of dying, felt it as Awik’s powerful fingers mashed brutally against his trachea, felt the flutter of Kirk’s eyelashes against his cheek as death beckoned. He felt Kirk’s rage and confusion as he became aroused, stiffened when Nyab had tortured his nipples, the torment simultaneously erotic and agonizing. Spock knew what Kirk felt, the helplessness and the fierce, palpable anger at that helplessness.

_It is what every victim of such degradation feels, my love. It is beyond your control, the arousal is autonomic, not psychological. You feared violation, you resisted it. You were not in control of your responses, please understand this. Please feel it._

_No! Spock, no…I must resist the meld, I don’t want it, not now. I must resist you…_

Spock could feel the frantic hammering of Kirk’s heartbeat, recognized the surge of the elevation of Kirk’s blood pressure. He disengaged from Kirk’s mind, pulling his fingertips from the beloved golden face immediately. He embraced Kirk then, holding him firmly against his chest, lightly tracing circles on his back with steady fingertips until Kirk’s breathing normalized, the blood pressure gradually diminishing, the heart rate stabilizing.

“Don’t…I don’t want to…” Kirk murmured, his eyes wide and shimmering like pale amber. He pushed weakly against Spock’s chest, attempting to free himself from the embrace. Spock would not release him.

“Jim,” he soothed.

Kirk looked directly at him, his eyes moist. They were very large, tawny and luminous. Kirk looked down at his hands, which were still placed against Spock’s chest. They were trembling. He felt a stab of embarrassment, followed by the heat of shame.

“Jim,” Spock soothed again. He would not relinquish his hold on this man, this brilliantly golden being whom he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt before this night was done would be his lover for all time.

They sat that way for quite awhile, on the edge of Kirk’s bunk, in the semi-darkness of the silent cabin. They remained so until the quaking in Kirk’s hands subsided and his breathing became very subdued.

Finally, Spock placed his fingertips under Kirk’s chin, lifting his face and gazing into the glistening, leonine eyes. The golden color of those orbs was softer now, the eyes not as wide, the stark emotions therein replaced with calm.

“It is time,” Spock said, deep warmth emanating from the darkness of his eyes. They kept their gaze fixed on one another’s for a brief time, until Kirk seemed to rouse himself from the fugue he’d into which he'd drifted.

“Time?”

Spock placed one hand behind Kirk’s neck and the other slid from its perch beneath his chin down over his throat to his chest. The same hand found its way to Kirk’s belly and rested there, the long, slender, elegant fingers splayed.

“Time for this.” Spock gently pressed his lips against Kirk’s, pressed a tad harder and let the tip of his tongue slip out and moisten Kirk’s lips. Kirk pressed back and parted his, so that Spock’s tongue could quickly dart inside. When he felt no resistance, Spock pushed his tongue in further, and Kirk’s mouth opened wider.

Kirk allowed his orifice to be explored for a few moments by Spock’s wet, generous tongue, savoring the warmth of it, the idiosyncratic taste of it. There was a tartness there, not unlike a faint citrus, Kirk thought, with a strangely comforting undertaste of cinnamon. He remembered their first kiss a few months before, how it had excited him, but even more how it had calmed him, reassured him. He opened his mouth even wider, feeling the tip of the tongue tease around his palate, slide against the upper gums, felt the suction that pulled against his own tongue.

Kirk moaned then and wrapped his arms around Spock’s neck tightly, pulling himself taut against Spock’s chest. Spock embraced him more fully, sliding his arms around Kirk’s back, one hand finally resting against of his waist.

The kissing continued for a few moments longer, until the dictates of biology demanded that they breathe. They pulled apart, but just barely.

“It is time, Jim,” rumbled Spock in his uniquely delicious baritone. Kirk nodded in assent, realizing how deeply he longed for what was to come.

Spock lifted Kirk’s t-shirt and pulled it over his head, disrobing the unresisting human like a doll. Kirk rose a little off the bunk while Spock, after undoing the fastening of Kirk’s uniform trousers, drew them down over his hips and all the way down his legs. They were left there on the floor, for the first time ever Spock completely ignored discarded garments, not caring that they were unfolded, oblivious that they were not properly put aside.

Kirk reciprocated by assisting Spock out of his tunic, his t-shirt, his trousers and his briefs. The boots and socks were removed and tipped over haphazardly on the floor toward the end of the bunk.

They kissed again, and slid their hands up and down one another’s backs. Spock released Kirk’s mouth and tongued his way down to Kirk’s smooth chest, tasting and teasing each of his nipples, reaching up and very softly rolling one of the pale, pink buds between his fingertip and thumb. Kirk arched his back, pressing himself against Spock’s fever-hot hand. He reached up and touched Spock’s hair, combing his fingers through it, allowing his fingertips to slip down to caress Spock’s delicately pointed eartip. Spock’s head came up, abandoning Kirk’s chest and pressing fiercely into that caress.

“Jim,” he moaned, the deepness of his voice lowering further into a distinctively felinoid growl. He slipped his hands down Kirk’s belly until they came to rest against the soft curling auburn-flecked, dark gold pubic hair gliding his fingers through it until they made contact with Kirk’s engorged penis. He touched it lightly, trailing the fingertips of both hands up and down the shaft, learning its contours, memorizing its structure, listening intently for Kirk’s vocalized responses. Touch it this way for a sigh, harder for a soft moan, grip it and squeeze it and slip that grip up and down in a somewhat sinister rhythm for a sharper, more emphatic, more desperate moan. Continuing to learn his partner’s responses and which actions would elicit them, Spock finally slid the pad of his right thumb over the rose-colored mushroom head, retracting its foreskin, surprised to feel the slipperiness of that single droplet of moisture oozing from the slit, dipping a tentative fingertip into that same narrowed opening and coaxing forth additional moisture.

He became fascinated by the sight of the gleaming, translucent pearl, and fixated on it, mahogany eyes sparkling with delight, eyebrows furrowed with inquisitive deliberation.

Kirk’s breath quickened and intensified, almost to the point of hyperventilation, and he squeezed Spock’s biceps ferociously. His head was thrown back and his lips were parted. He lifted his hips from the bunk and arched his pelvis forward in one sudden motion, surprising Spock again. Spock continued to stroke the human phallus more intently now, applying pressure to the glans and pumping up and down the steel-hard shaft. Kirk bent backwards, his pelvis arching up and out, as if his body were begging for more acute force from Spock’s touch.

Spock inhaled, relishing the scent of Kirk’s arousal. He could detect the warm, heady smell of perspiration; Kirk’s flesh glowed with it in the cabin’s ambient light. He could smell the savage muskiness of human male, lightly traced with the clean, woodsy scent of Kirk’s body cleanser. He wanted more than to simply smell him, he was compelled by the irresistible urge to taste him, and bending down until his bangs brushed against Kirk’s pubic curls and became slightly entangled with them, opened his mouth and pushed his tongue wetly against the hot, throbbing shaft. He licked it up and down, tracing the tip of his tongue against the vein and the glans, pulled the smooth, bulbous head inside of his mouth where he abraded against it with the underside of his tongue, pushing roughly against the silkiness of it.

He realized with humble gratitude he’d hit a goldmine of sensation when he felt Kirk’s fingers stop currying through his hair and pull it tightly instead. He continued to torment the seeping glans, finally deciding to suck the entire shaft into his mouth. As he sank his lips down to the base, his nose connected with Kirk’s pubic hair and he inhaled deeply of its musky sweetness, and reaching down wrapped his entire hand around Kirk’s testicles, squeezing the heft of them, savoring their taut fullness and massaging them together with his thumb. Kirk arched his pelvis upward again and thrust his cock into Spock’s mouth with a greediness and violence which left Spock breathlessly aroused, enslaved by the knowledge of the enormous pleasure he was bringing to his lover.

_My lover, yes, now, you are my lover... mine, all mine and mine alone!_

His thoughts were racing, and as he relaxed his throat so that Kirk could violate it completely his mind eased into a strangely altered state, in which he found himself incapable of cessation, fueled only by that overwhelming desire to be used by this human for pleasure, for release, and for completion.

Somewhere in the middle of his servitude, Spock’s mind reminded him of his own frenetic need for discharge, and as much as he continued to cradle and tease Kirk’s painfully distended balls with one hand, he took his other and engaged his own throbbing and straining erection. He pumped vigorously at a frenzied pace, exerting just enough pressure to bring to his brain the sensation of his skull banging rhythmically against a cement wall, and as his imaginary cranial agony increased, so did the maniacal senses in his vigorously pulsating cock.

They continued that way until Kirk hoarsely squealed and rich, white fluid squirted with force from the head of his cock, coursing down Spock’s throat, congesting it deliciously. Spock continued to suck as Kirk continued to pull at his hair, the wild strength of each jerk threatening to yank those silky, straight locks right out of his scalp. He continued to brutally milk himself, and when he opened his eyes and stared into Kirk’s face, the tension in it was gone, the beauty of the features radiant. He watched the rise and fall of Kirk’s lambent chest, and eased the human down. Kirk turned his head to the side, breathing raggedly through his open mouth.

Spock continued to watch him, as he pumped in a steady, rhythmic motion, feeling his own testicles constrict, his internal gonads bloat painfully. That billowing feeling was a dynamic mix of pleasure and pain, and suddenly he knew it , this delightful torment was at its blissful culmination as he spasmed, grunted and spilled his blistering Vulcan seed all over his hand, his upper thighs and a little on Kirk’s thigh, which was nestled near his own. The steamy moisture trickled down the shaft of his still distended cock and he disregarded it, knowing that his tumescence would not abate for some time, unlike that of his lover’s, which was gone now, leaving only an adorably soft remnant behind, resting against its owner’s flat and heaving abdomen.

Spock sighed, groaned and flopped down beside the resplendent Kirk, who appeared to be dozing; a masculine Undine with outwardly flung arms, legs spread akimbo, moist, pink lips parted.

 _Not yet complete,_ thought Spock as his eyes closed, and he rode the sleigh of endorphins with such resonant contentment.

_Not just yet._

Spock roused himself and lifting an arm to cross Kirk’s rhythmically rising and falling chest, watched his beloved human as he slumbered lightly. He began to gently caress Kirk’s chest, moving his hand down to Kirk’s toned belly, which he massaged repetitively and with deep affection. Kirk stirred a bit, turning his head and opening his eyes to regard Spock with equal fondness.

“That was pretty wild,” he murmured, a heartbreakingly innocent smile creasing his face. With an uncharacteristic smirk, Spock looped his other arm beneath Kirk’s shoulders and squeezed them emphatically. He moved closer to Kirk, nuzzling his face, permitting the tip of his tongue to glide with tentative delicacy over Kirk’s parted lips. As Kirk opened his mouth, Spock darted his hot tongue inside and they were eagerly kissing again, with passionately obvious desire.

As the kissing intensified, Spock’s caressing hand gradually slid down Kirk’s belly, slid through the dark golden pubic curls and lightly brushed against the base of the shaft.

Kirk moaned, a millisonant, soft, barely audible sound. Spock wrapped his fingers around the shaft and squeezing slightly began to glide his lean fist up and down, slowly at first, then escalating incrementally in speed until his narrow fingerpads came into contact with the pulsating glans, which he squeezed as well, deftly, rubbing gingerly with the open palm of his hand.

Kirk moaned again, with more urgency in his voice. He covered Spock’s bony hand with his own stockier one, sharing the ride up and down his shaft, gliding roughly over the head.

“Oh,” Kirk murmured against Spock’s neck, “what are you doing, Spock?” There was no response except for a warm exhalation of breath from Spock, as he continued to play with and fondle his captain’s rapidly forming erection.

“Spock…what are you doing to me?” Kirk sighed, and moaned, his thighs parting wider, one knee bending. He stretched his body languidly, his arms extending over his head, hands gripping the coverlet.

Spock continued to fondle Kirk’s turgid erection, allowing his fingers to linger around the testicles, which he held in his hand and lightly caressed, easing his fingers beneath them. He parted the buttocks and gently stroked his fingertips like living flames across Kirk’s perineum, negligibly darting one finger inside the tiny opening. Kirk’s breath stopped for an instant, and he froze.

“Spock…”

Kirk’s voice trembled in susurrus exhortation as he lifted his buttocks slightly off the mattress, but Spock would not stop touching him there. Another finger was insinuated past the opening, entering but not venturing further, avoiding the ringed muscle, teasing it insidiously.

“Spock…” Kirk repeated, his whispered voice harsh, tight, as though he were struggling. He did not, however, close his thighs together, but left them wide apart and to Spock’s genuine surprise, the knees were lifted until they too, dropped to either side.

 _Do not fear me, my love. I will not hurt you. I will never hurt you._

Spock mentally transmitted his intention to Kirk, saving his breath for a soft, rumbling moan.

_What’s happening to me? Spock, please, what are you doing to me?_

Kirk’s thoughts were jumbling, his pulse was racing and the expression on his face had darkened, the brows knit together, the eyes bright and very green, like emeralds glittering in the half-light of the sleeping alcove.

Spock pulled himself up on his knees, bending down to Kirk’s face, and invaded the cool, moist human mouth with a ravening kiss, wet tongue probing too deeply into Kirk’s open and pliant maw, causing the youthful captain to thrust his pelvis upward, moaning loudly, the moan ending in a tiny whimper.

Spock insinuated himself between Kirk’s splayed knees, pushing them back to Kirk’s panting chest. Spock lightly touched his lover on the forehead with a fingertip, and pushed the same fingertip between Kirk’s parted lips, encouraging Kirk to suck on it.

“Oh, god, what are you doing?” Kirk huffed, breathlessly, his eyes wider than ever. “You…you’re just too big…for this…I won’t be able to…”

His voice was lighter, straining hoarsely.

“All is well, my heart,” replied Spock as he softly brushed his fingertips across Kirk’s pulsating throat, and lightly dragged those same febrile tips down Kirk’s smooth chest to his pectorals across one nipple, which he gently squeezed.

Kirk arched his back and closed his eyes, gasping fervently.

“No,” Kirk whispered, reaching his hand down past Spock’s belly, touching Spock’s tumescence hesitantly.

“My god,” Kirk murmured, pawing the enormous, jade/amber shaft, marveling at its prodigious length, its startling breadth and its alien pulsations.

“I want to taste you, Spock,” he whispered, almost reverently. He slid his fingers around the organ’s girth, smoothly slipping his closed fist up and down, learning the feel and the construction of it. Retracting the foreskin, he wondered at the double ridges, smiling when his touch caused them to flare out slightly.

“That’s amazing!” he chirped in awe, and bending slowly he opened his mouth and darting out the tip of his tongue tasted the coruscant dew nestled atop the slit.

“Oh, Spock,” he enthused gently, now wrapping both fists around the sleek rod and assiduously licking it all around the shaft like an old-fashioned candy cane. He wanted to take the entire thing into his mouth and fellate it but knew there was no way he could open wide enough to admit that much of the steaming, vibrating organ. He continued to lap at it, swirling his tongue from the shaft to the glans, interleaving his tongue wetly into the opening. He made an attempt to stretch his jaws as widely as possible and found he could pull a good deal of it inside; joyfully he salivated, loosening his oral hold on the shaft and glans before pulling back to suck some more, until Spock’s cock was drenched with sudsy, tepid saliva.

Spock gently shoved at Kirk until the captain was lying down on his back, his legs still spread very wide. Spock inserted the first two fingers of his left hand into Kirk’s mouth and urged him to suck them, which Kirk did, sloppily and with notable enthusiasism, knowing why and yet denying that knowledge.

Spock eased his sodden fingers from Kirk’s mouth and lowering them, gently prodded against his anus, wetting the perineum as much as possible and inserting one finger. Kirk tensed and gasped a little, but managed to will himself to relax.

“All is well, all will be well, for all _is_ well, my _t’hy’la_ ,” Spock soothed. Taking his right hand, he placed his fingertips along the left side of Kirk’s perspiring face in the familiar locations of the meld, and with his left hand, he gripped Kirk’s steely shaft and rhythmically slid his closed fist up and down, as he pushed the smooth head of his own monstrous organ against the pliant rose and brown opening of Kirk’s body, lancinating then slowly entering, cautiously, judiciously shifting first one and then the second ridge within.

Kirk’s gasp was sharp and loud as he tilted his head back, his neck excruciatingly arched. He pushed against Spock’s shoulders with both hands, anxiously clawing at Spock’s lean, muscular flesh. 

_No, no pain, beloved. I am here for you. I am here for you. Feel no pain, feel only pleasure. Pleasure my love, pure pleasure. We have both wanted this for so long…_

_Spock! Please! I can’t! I can’t do this! Please, Spock!_

Kirk’s mind exploded with hysteria, forcing Spock to strengthen the meld, shielding Kirk’s mind from the very idea of pain.

_No, my golden One, no…there is no pain…you can do this…you are doing it now…I am within you…feel me…I am within…_

As suddenly as he had begun to squirm and struggle, Kirk desisted and went totally limp, his arms falling boneless from Spock’s chest, flung out from Kirk’s body across either side of the bed. He became completely inert, silent except for an occasional moan and the sound of panting as his respiration accelerated dramatically. Spock breached the anal gateway and managed to push deftly into the fuller recesses of Kirk’s rectum, dipping in and out in a gentle, regular rhythm for quite a few moments, increasing the motions fractionally, then eagerly, and finally with a purpose-driven intensity, increasing the velocity and volume of each mighty thrust.

Kirk remained completely still, until Spock unintentionally skimmed Kirk’s prostate, causing the captain to cry out stridently and lift his hips without volition. He cried out again.

“Spock!” he yelped in desperation. “Something’s happening…let me up…” Spock’s face was a scant few centimeters from Kirk’s.

“Tell me, t’hy’la,” he urged with a velvet murmur. “Tell me.”

Obviously somewhat bewildered, Kirk canted his head back and forth.

“Let me up, let me up. I have to go…I have to use the head….” he whispered with insistence.

“No,” Spock reassured him. “No, you do not. You do _not_ require the facilities. I am here for you, _ashaya._ Relax yourself. Open for me; open with me.”

Lips parted, head thrown back, his back arching nearly doubled, Kirk participated lustily in his own violation from that point on, matching each thrust by pushing his hips vigorously against Spock. They became lost then, savagely grunting like animals acting out of instinct, without love or affection, the raw energy of carnal phenomenon their only guide, hyperbolic erotic stimulation flooding Kirk’s vulnerable sensorium, dousing it with nearly unendurable bliss.

A blinding, shattering critical mass they reached simultaneously, Spock roaring like a mad thing in his release, Kirk nearly shrieking, high-pitched, in his own.

They hovered, formlessly, in a black hole of the senses, leisurely sinking into the stupor of resolution, clinging dankly to one another, the milk of Spock’s life trailing from Kirk’s body onto the already sweat-dampened sheets, the cream of Kirk’s humanity trickling across his belly and onto his inner thigh. There was nothing left now, nothing at all but the sound of deep and satisfied breathing.

_Bells Were Ringing_

***

From that night forward, they were off, like Arcturan racehorses out of the gate. Their sexuality exploded, they became drenched in their own eroticism around the clock, day after day, night after night. They appeared to function well in their respective roles as command team, never slipping, never forgetting, never making even the slightest mistake. Kirk’s command performance became magnified, and the loyalty of his crew became enhanced a hundred fold. Spock, as always, remained the best science officer in ‘Fleet, and they became legendary throughout the known galaxy as an exemplary command team, with a superior crew.

McCoy observed cautiously, taking it all in. Neither the captain nor the First Officer had dropped a hint that they had finally taken their relationship to the next level, but it was so glaringly evident every single day. The crew felt it, and the crew knew it. If anyone of the four hundred and thirty-five member crew disapproved, and surely there were martinets amongst them, they kept it to themselves, frowning surreptitiously; secretly wishing the captain and his First Officer would slip up, and slip up badly.

Such devastation never came to pass. Kirk grew as a diplomat, and began to receive more and more diplomatic assignments. His writing ability was above excellent, his charm utterly brilliant. Nobody could resist him for long, and he became known as not only the youngest starship captain in the history of Starfleet but as the youngest successful interplanetary diplomat as well.

One evening, after a particularly difficult but ultimately successful diplomatic mission, the three men sat together in Officer’s Mess Three, relaxing and dining together.

“I never thought the Terambesians would finally give in this time,” retorted McCoy, shaking his head in wonderment as he poured yet another glass of Saurian Brandy, one for himself and one for the captain.

“No, neither did I, to tell you the truth,” replied Kirk, sipping his drink.

Terambesis VI was an extremely volatile world, overpopulated almost to the point of becoming economically crippled, yet vitally important to the Federation due to the extensive amount of valuable minerals and ores that graced its surface and inner core. There were as many political factions on Terambesis VI as there were variety of Terran mosquitoes it seemed, each one as explosive as the next, each one possessive of the globe to the degree of obsessive violence. Factions had to be dealt with effectively, and there was simply no way of installing and assisting a central global governing body.

Yet somehow, Kirk had been able to placate all of the delegates, appeal to their similarities and broader interests, and keep all heads cool. Even in his own mind, he marveled at how he’d done it, right up until the last minute feeling very insecure about the outcome, and flabbergasted and delighted that it had turned out so blazingly positive.

“Yes, well, Bones, sometimes you just gotta believe,” he smiled at his CMO. McCoy smiled back, luxuriating in the golden warmth of that one in a million smile.

 _No,_ the physician thought to himself _, realistically, who in the nine worlds could ever refuse you_ anything _with a smile like that?_

“It will be fascinating to observe the proceedings from now on between the fifteen global states, as they test out their theory of mutual assistance and harmony,” commented Spock, fondling but not sipping from the glass of brandy that McCoy had insisted he have.

“I’m sure that it will be. Just remember, gentlemen,” said Kirk with a confident lilt to his voice, “that hope is the thing with feathers.” He lifted his glass. “To Hope---may the thing with feathers fly, and fly freely evermore!”

McCoy and Spock raised their glasses.

“Here, here!” and McCoy threw the entire contents of his glass back, while Spock sipped with restraint from his.

McCoy regarded his companions fondly. Jim Kirk fairly glowed, not just this evening, but virtually all the time. His complexion was deeper, healthier, a robust rosiness expressed brightly in his cheeks, his lips fuller, his eyes sharp and luminous.

 _The glow of being in love,_ thought McCoy, smiling. He looked at Spock, who as usual wore absolutely no facial expression, but seemed a tad more serene than McCoy had remembered of late. Kirk’s physique had altered slightly but noticeably, as well. He’d dropped a good five pounds, the five pounds McCoy had been after him to drop for several months now. His face appeared more lean, his body visibly more supple, far more youthful than his thirty-five years would ordinarily appear.

 _Love…amazing, isn’t it?_ McCoy thought. As the conversation wore on, and Kirk turned a little toward Spock to listen to what the Vulcan was saying, McCoy squinted his eyes and peered at Kirk’s face more intently. He noticed it then, a dark, bluish mark along the jawline, close to the ear. A bruise? Yes, a hematoma, in a rather odd place. He reached out and barely touched it with his fingertip.

Kirk flinched and drew back, whirling his head to look directly at the physician.

“What?” he snapped. “What is it?”

“What indeed? What is that?” McCoy pointed at the mark.

“What’s what?” Kirk’s eyes grew sharper, his face flushed. Pinkness rose brightly like a tide from the hollow of his neck to his hairline. “What are you talking about, Bones?”

“Odd place for a bruise. I didn’t notice it yesterday when I saw you. Let’s see now, you probably got it while…exercising, right?”

The doctor smiled fractionally, knowingly.

“I…yeah, I suppose…I hadn’t noticed it, either,” replied Kirk, his eyes quickly darting to Spock, then just as quickly darting back to McCoy, who stared back placidly with an expression like that of the proverbial Chesire cat, bemused yet oddly perceptive.

“Uh-huh. Spare me a few moments at some point today, will you, Jim?” he suggested, laconically, then looking over at Spock, “You, too, Mister Spock.”

Spock’s eyebrow rose into his bangs.

“Both of us, Doctor, or separately?”

“Both of you, together, please. Doctor’s orders,” replied McCoy, firmly but gently, only his cobalt eyes smiling.

Kirk turned to Spock with a blank expression on his face.

“It’s going to be a dog of day, Bones, there’s so much going on, what with the post-negotiation report, and the…”

“Jim,” said McCoy, a fraction more emphatically. “Doctor’s orders.”

Kirk looked directly at his friend, again somewhat blankly. Then he nodded in acquiescence. “Alright, Bones. We’ll be there.”

McCoy stood up, gazing fondly at his Captain and First Officer. Picking up his tray, he shook his head in wonder and drifting over to the disposal chute, chucked his refuse, turned and sauntered out of the Mess.

They reported to Sick Bay after shift that evening, right before dinner. McCoy smiled warmly, ushering them into his office and keying the “lock” code into the control panel by the door.

“Have a seat, gentlemen,” he suggested, cordially. The command team did so, sitting beside one another, and McCoy faced them, leaning against the front of his desk with his arms folded across his chest.

Kirk felt like an errant schoolboy called before the headmaster.

“I’ve been thinking about that bruise, Jim,” McCoy started, his voice firm but kind, the inflection avuncular. Kirk looked at him, and lowered his eyes.

“Is it a fatal bruise, Bones?” he joked. “Will I have permanent lockjaw or something?”

“Alright, alright, Jim,” McCoy smirked, amused despite himself. He really did want to have a fairly serious discussion with the two of them.

“I need to discuss something with the two of you that is completely confidential, and yes, it _is_ my business, since I’m personal physician to both of you while you serve on this ship…” he peered at them somberly. “As you both know.”

“Please continue, Doctor,” said Spock, with equal sincerity.

“I realize…as does virtually everyone on this ship…that things have been moving along swimmingly between the two of you,” he gestured vaguely at them, “and that’s just great, it’s a beautiful thing, I wish you both the best, and I’m certain the crew does, too.”

“Well, Bones, thanks, but…”

Kirk began to reply, but McCoy cut him off.

“No, no, you need to hear this, Jim. You need to listen to me and hear me. I need to ask you something, and you need to answer me honestly, and remember that it’s absolutely confidential.”

“Alright, Bones,” agreed Kirk, gazing up with a serious expression at his friend and physician.

“That bruise on your jawline is in the shape of a thumbprint, you know,” stated McCoy, matter-of-factly. He waited for a few seconds to allow the import of his comment sink in. As he expected, Spock continued to regard him with his usual neutrality and Kirk turned to glance at Spock quickly, returning his gaze to McCoy.

“Yes, a thumbprint, as though someone had grabbed you by the face, grabbed you and grabbed you pretty hard.”

There was silence for a few moments, and then Kirk cleared his throat.

“I’m going to ask you something, straight out, and after you answer me---straight out---we’re gonna have a little talk, okay?” smiled McCoy, gently.

“Jim…Spock…have the two of you been engaging in ‘rough’ sex?”

Kirk’s mouth dropped open, and he started to laugh, then closed his mouth quickly, whirled to glance at Spock, looked back at McCoy and opened his mouth again.

“Bones!”

“Yeah, I kind of thought so,” replied McCoy, folding his arms across his chest again. He took a deep breath and looked over at Spock, who sat stone silent in his chair with his hands in his lap and his gaze down. He looked back up, directly in McCoy’s gaze.

“I don’t want to intrude, whatever makes you all happy is fine, but I don’t want you two to trip yourselves up because of a lack of information, or a failure to continue to be sensitive to your surroundings.”

Kirk closed his mouth, and settled back into his chair, crossing his legs, and folding his arms across his chest as well.

“Well, Bones?” he said, calmly. “What are we doing wrong?”

“You need to take into consideration,” McCoy replied, directing his comment directly toward Spock, “that Jim is human. His physical strength, as well as his physical endurance, is barely a tenth of what yours is. He’s high these days, high from the endorphins constantly being produced by the frequency of your activities and the intense energy contained within them. He’s practically on warp drive, psychologically, emotionally and sexually, but like even the best maintained warp core, that center of high energy is gonna burn out pretty soon. It’s one thing to get carried away with yourselves but it’s another thing completely to ignore common sense.”

Kirk sighed deeply and hung his head. He did feel like he was in the headmaster’s office.

“Bones,” he began, softly, “It’s not that we’ve been engaging in what you call ‘rough sex’, I know what that means, I know what it is, and that’s _not_ what we’re doing, believe me.” He looked up in earnest at the physician.

“Okay,” conceded McCoy, with interest. “Then what _are_ the two of you doing, exactly?”

“Oh, come on, Bones, we’re…”

McCoy interrupted him by holding up a hand.

“Jim, “ he said, “if I were to take a Feinberg and run it over you, what would I find? Would I find more bruises? Bigger ones, wider ones? Would I find internal tearing?”

“Bones!”

Kirk was aghast, not so much by McCoy’s hunches but by their shocking accuracy.

“You need to become better acquainted with the reality of your physiology, Captain. You need to temper your activities in tune with what you can and cannot physically tolerate. You’re so high when the two of you are doing what you’ve been doing that you probably don’t even feel any discomfort or when you do feel it you disregard it, you ignore it. Do you know what a perforated colon is, Jim? Do you, Spock?”

He peered at them somberly, but far from angrily. More solicitously, with deep concern.

“I understand what it is, Doctor. I familiarized myself thoroughly with human reproductive anatomy as soon as I realized my relationship with the captain was changing, and in which direction it was heading. I understand the glaring disparity between the level of our strengths and our energies. What you are attempting to do, are doing, actually, is imminently logical.”

Spock sat as straight as a new sapling in his chair, looking directly into McCoy’s eyes.

“Then, if you understand as completely as I believe you do, Spock, I would appeal to your greater ability at self-restraint…for Jim’s sake. Keep aware at all times what you are doing, as though you were playing with a child. He may want to lose complete control, but you must always maintain that awareness of his…fragility in comparison to your much greater might and resilience. What to you is a mere passionate embrace can leave bruises on his body, what to you is…the pathway toward release for him could result in …a crippling injury. Do I make myself clear?”

Kirk looked from McCoy to Spock, and back again, his brows furrowing in both concern and slight bewilderment. He understood what McCoy was talking about, and it embarrassed him some, but he also felt that he didn’t want to alter in any way, shape or form whatever direction his intimate activities with Spock would take.

McCoy sighed gustily, partially with relief, partly with resignation. He turned to the cabinet behind his desk, and pulling out three small glasses and a decanter, chuckled slightly.

“Anyone care for any?” he asked as he placed the glassware and the decanter on his desk, and looked over his shoulder at the couple. The couple, he smiled to himself. What a couple indeed they made. Gold and onyx. Rose and jade.

“Yeah, I would,” replied Kirk, in a bit of a flat tone.

“Now we come to the second part of what I wanted to discuss with the two of you,” said McCoy as he handed a half-full glass of brandy to Kirk, inquired with a lift of his eyebrows toward Spock, who declined, and poured himself a little of the amber beverage into the shot glass.

“Which is?” wondered Kirk, aloud.

“There’s no argument that you’re handling your personal lives pretty well, we’re in such close quarters here on the ship, and gossip travels as flash-quickly as phaser fire. But, Jim, you’re gonna have to learn to try and conceal your lovebites a little better’n what you’ve been doin’ lately, and try and turn down the volume on your coloring.”

Kirk inquired by widening his eyes.

“Between this week’s bruise on your jawline---obviously someone stole a kiss rather---energetically---and two weeks ago you had what we’ve always called “hickies” on the side of your neck, two weeks before that you had a swollen upper lip, and the week before that a swollen lower lip, and…”

“Oh, for god’s sake, alright, Bones, alright, alright, alright…” Kirk squeezed his glass and tipping it to his lips drained the remainder of the fiery liquid. He coughed surreptitiously at first, then coughed a little more. “I get it, alright, I get it, goddammit…”

“Jim,” Spock said, calmly. “The doctor is correct. We both agreed not to broadcast our personal lives, to remain peaceful, in order to maintain a sense of decorum on board the ship.”

“It has never been, nor will it ever be, my intention to broadcast anything of any sort, Spock. “ Kirk calmed down and looked up at McCoy, who remained standing.

“Has my command performance changed in any way, Bones, any way at all?”

McCoy shook his head.

“No, Jim, in fact it’s better than ever, your responses are sharper, your rapport with the crew is as strong as always… I just want the two of you to have the life you need to have…without undue pressure from your environment. It’s difficult enough to maintain a relationship at any time, anywhere, without adding the pressure-cooker atmosphere of living on a starship in the middle of nowhere, day in and day out. In addition, there’s the emotional distress of landing parties and prospective danger to the two of you.”

Kirk rubbed his lower lip thoughtfully. Several months earlier, while ferrying a shipload of diplomats to the annual interplanetary conference on the planet Babel, diplomats who included Spock’s father, Ambassador Sarek, and his mother, Lady Amanda, there had been a disruption on board, funded by the Orions and others who opposed the admission of the planet Coridan to the Federation. The Tellarite ambassador had been murdered, and the captain himself had been assaulted and severely injured by an Adorian imposter. Everything turned out shockingly well, despite the dramatic events which ensued, including a massive heart attack for Ambassador Sarek, emergency surgeries for both the Ambassador and the captain, and a long, disturbing talk between Spock and his beloved mother.

Spock recalled the dual horror of facing the possible losses of both his father and his lover.

“That’s par for the course for the life we’ve willingly chosen, Bones. We’ve discussed it, and I’ve gone into denial that something bad will ever happen. We discuss it all the time, but we can’t change anything. We both desire the life we have in ‘Fleet, and at the same time,we absolutely can’t part from one another…”

Kirk gazed meaningfully at Spock, who returned the look with fondness.

“Absolutely…” Spock intoned.

“Alrighty then,” McCoy clapped his hands together loudly, so that both men looked at him quickly. “I’ve said my piece, I know I’m the crazy one here, but I got a job to do and dang it all, I did it!”

His easy smile broke the tension, and he poured another glass of brandy. He held out the decanter to Kirk who declined to McCoy’s surprise until he saw Spock’s subtle look of disapproval. McCoy smiled.

_I believe Jim’s in for a bit of tamin’ and domesticizin’…hot damn!_

“Have the two of you discussed bonding yet?” McCoy inquired, with genuine interest, after sipping at his libation.

“Oh, sure, but…I don’t…I…we’re still discussing it…and everything…” Kirk murmured, glancing at Spock before looking up at McCoy with a somewhat desperate look on his face. McCoy frowned fractionally.

“Oh?”

He quickly finished his drink in one gulp, and setting the glass firmly on his desk, said, “Well, I don’t want to intrude any further than I have already…remember, you two, that pretty much everyone on board here wishes the best for you, they admire you both so much…just go slowly, enjoy one another’s company, and maintain your awareness of all the things we’ve discussed here, okay?”

The captain and his First Officer stood up to leave. McCoy shook both their hands and lightly embraced the captain, looking directly into his eyes.

“You need me, Jim, for anything, at anytime, I’m here. Understand?”

“Affirmative, Doctor!” grinned Kirk, very sincerely. He felt deeply grateful for McCoy’s friendship, and felt no chagrin at the evening’s conversation. He still furrowed his eyebrows at the subject of bonding, as he and Spock left Sick Bay and ambled through the corridor toward the turbolift.

“Life Sciences,” said Spock as he grabbed hold of the turbolift control. Kirk glanced at him.

“Labs? Tonight?”

He wasn’t aware that the Vulcan had planned to put in some time in the lab that evening.

“The third part of the project on temporal anomalies, Jim. Lieutenant Choudhury has been running the trials alone for the most part since I had been working with you on the diplomatic mission. Now that we are back on course to Starbase 12, it would be appropriate for me to return to supervising the remaining trial and assist with the coordination of the analyses.”

He was as placid as ever, but looking down at Kirk, managed to convey an expression of reassurance on his face.

“How long…” Kirk began.

“I cannot be certain at this time. I do not believe it will be long into the night, however. You may be asleep by the time I return, unless you will be working on the remainder of the post-negotiation report.”

“It’s almost done. I’m actually feeling rather exhausted. A shower and some light reading, I think. Bones’ brandy is sort of hitting me now, too.”

Kirk looked up at his significant companion, long, bronze lashes framing his wide eyes. He reached up and lightly touched the point of Spock’s right ear. As always, the Vulcan leaned into the touch, and the turbolift stopped at the lab deck. Spock stepped out, choosing not to look back at the captain, as there were several crew members who were waiting for the turbolift, and ever mindful of McCoy’s warning, Spock did not wish to even minimally call attention to the longing he felt for his captain as the doors swished closed.

Kirk leaned back against the turbolift bulkhead, and at Deck Five he disembarked and walked through the deserted corridor to the quarters he shared with Spock, feeling oddly lonely, yet knowing he needed only to open the link between them in order to luxuriate in the warmth of their mutual love.

He was lightly dozing, laying across the bunk on top of the covers when Spock arrived, several hours later. The experimentat he’d been working on could not be completed due to an unforeseen deterrent in the formulations, formulations which Spock had diligently been laboring over for weeks. Finally, he’d realized that it was only logical to discontinue the preparations which he and Lieutenant Choudhury had established and close up for the time being. Another research team would continue the analysis of Spock’s findings at Alpha shift, and Spock found himself feeling thankful to return to his quarters.

Gratified to find Kirk snoozing on the bunk, Spock gazed fondly at the human. Kirk’s skin glowed softly in the ambient lighting of the cabin, perspiring as usual in its extremely warm temperature. The two men generally lived in the captain’s quarters, but last evening Kirk wound up in Spock’s, which Spock knew from their link. He would always know, or at least have a keen sense, of where his lover was physically, and undressing, paused for a moment to think of how much stronger the directional link would be once they were bonded.

During their conversation earlier that evening with Dr. McCoy, Kirk had alluded to the “discussions” he and Spock had regarding the bond. Spock shook his head fractionally, remembering what such discussions had been like. They were strongly worded, with Kirk essentially refusing the bond, “for the foreseeable future” until the two of them “knew for certain” where they stood in terms of their relationship. Kirk constantly insisted that it was all so new, even after more than a year, that he needed more time to properly acclimate himself to the reality of such an immense commitment.

Spock reminded him of the length of time of their union, and the deep connectedness they both enjoyed, and in the long run, the eternal love that Spock felt for his captain. It seemed a constant battle to reassure Kirk that Spock’s feelings were real, complete, total and immutable.

Spock pulled off his boots and t-shirt, and lay down beside Kirk, lightly caressing the captain’s arm, which was stretched out in front of him as he lay curved in a semi-fetal position. He was clad only in the black regulation underwear, the t-shirt, which was curiously enough rolled up off of his torso and scrunched beneath his armpits, and the black briefs and black socks. Spock smiled gently; _always with the socks_ , his socks being the two garments usually forgotten by Kirk in his haste to undress for sleep, or anything else for that matter. It was not unusual for the captain to make love while still wearing his black socks.

Spock curled against Kirk’s back, feeling the motion of the captain’s body as it moved gently in sleep. The face was so relaxed, youthful and innocent, the mouth slack, the long, bronze eyelashes shadowing the sculpted cheekbones. Spock embraced him and let his own mind drift comfortably along, attuning his thoughts to Kirk’s in the dream state.

He began to sense Kirk’s dreams as the captain’s alpha state deepened and Spock’s alpha state slowly began to coalesce. The dreams were active, Kirk seemed to be in flight---running, it seemed. Images flashed on and off, quickly, like the images on a vidscreen while channel surfing. Dark and light, light and dark, then complete darkness, but never complete light. Spock could sense a slight increase in Kirk’s respiration, but Kirk himself remained completely still, tranquil.

Spock listened more closely with his mind, his face pressed tightly to the back of Kirk’s neck. Kirk was perspiring more heavily, breathing deeply. The dream seemed to possess a quality of desperation, apprehension coiled tightly around it. Kirk’s knees, which were drawn up slightly toward his belly, moved, one knee pulling up higher toward his chest. He began to breathe faster, not quite hyperventilating. The dream was populated with several figures, one of them soothing, the others threatening.

A threat dream, escalating steadily into a panic dream, well on its way to the nightmare stage.

Spock’s body tensed, even as he remained in a light alpha state, preparing to apprehend whatever was menacing his lover in sleep, a mental ear attuned for more information. Kirk trembled a little in his sleep, and Spock could see in his own shadow mind the face of the Orion slaver who had attempted to assault Kirk more than a year before. The figure grinned, laughed out loud, his hands were raised. Kirk flinched in his sleep. Spock could detect the sound of raucous music, the rollicking laughter of others, mostly masculine voices, loud and derisive.

Kirk’s body tensed briefly and he sighed. Spock woke up fully and gently turned Kirk toward him, Kirk’s face tilted upward. He appeared to still be sleeping, although his eyes were slightly opened, glazed over, unaware. His mouth was open and he was breathing rapidly, yet not exactly panting.

Spock did not wish to wake him, and allowed his arm to slacken so that Kirk’s head could gently loll back upon the coverlet, but when he slid his arm down the length of Kirk’s nude belly, his elbow contacted dampness around the waistband of Kirk’s briefs.

Spock opened his fingers and let them play further down Kirk’s crotch. He raised an eyebrow as his fingertips came into contact with more moisture, warm and fresh.

 _Nocturnal emission_. Spock smiled fractionally, then frowned. So Kirk had come in his sleep, but during a nightmare. The oddness of it disturbed Spock, but not enough for him to awaken his lover in order to discuss it.

Perhaps some other time.

A few hours passed and just before morning, Kirk stirred. He murmured and attempted to turn over, his belly coming into contact with Spock’s rear. They had slept with their heads toward the end of the bunk, diagonally stretched across its diameter. The coverlet was bunched beneath them, and in the humid atmosphere of Spock’s cabin, Kirk was uncomfortably plastered into his underwear and sodden with sweat.

He lay quietly for a moment, still in a twilight sleep-state, fighting for consciousness. He could feel Spock stirring too, and lay waiting for his First Officer to turn over and face him, which Spock did, momentarily.

“ _Ashalik_ ,” Spock murmured, his velvet brown eyes peering at Kirk lovingly.

“ _Ashalik_ \---my love”, again in dulcet baritone. Kirk gazed up at him, then looked down at his own bare midriff and exposed chest, realizing his groin was damp.

Sighing deeply, he closed his eyes, opened them wide and looked directly into Spock’s. Spock could sense the fear there, and wondered about it, clutching Kirk more tightly, reassuring him.

“ _Kanbu, kanbu_. _T’nash-veh-kanbu-i’khazel_ ,” Spock crooned in a gentle singsong. “Baby, baby. My baby boy, my baby boy…” He rocked Kirk sweetly in his arms, his chin resting firmly against Kirk’s eyebrow, feeling the feathery flutter of Kirk’s eyelashes as he blinked rapidly, struggling against the physical reality of the potential onset of tears.

They held that position for some time, Spock speaking into Kirk’s mind from within his own: _t’nash-veh-kanbu-i’khazel, t’nash-veh-kinkur-i’khazel, t’nash-veh-kinkur-i’khazel---my baby boy, my golden boy, my golden boy_. Kirk never wept out loud, never sobbed deeply, merely lay there embraced by his powerful lover, soaking up the sweetness of the Vulcan words Spock used to soothe him, demulcent to his very soul.

Rising to greet the morning proved extremely difficult that day for the captain of the _Enterprise_. He remained somewhat melancholy throughout the shift, which was a double one, accomplishing basic command tasks, grateful there were no major crises to confront, no complicated arrangements to hammer out.

Spock monitored his lover surreptitiously, noting the quietude, the sadness, and wondering how he could assist in its eradication. He was aware of Kirk’s nightmare, but Kirk had been plagued with intermittent sleep disturbances most of his adult life, ever since the tragedy on Tarsus IV, so many years ago. The burden of command did nothing but exacerbate the night terrors, and each mission that ended badly, each loss of crew, each horror the ship experienced replayed itself endlessly in his dreams, until finally his mind placed those memories in a compartment of forgetfulness, and Kirk moved on, finding a reason to smile and grab gustily at life, again and again.

McCoy noted Kirk’s somewhat mild depression as well, but kept his observations to himself. His inner wisdom was constructed on the belief that observation and its analysis, as well as a keen memory, would always bring him to the correct diagnosis of any problem, whether physiological or psychological, and that wisdom had served him well over his decades-long career, especially in space. He was keenly aware that Kirk’s resolution of the affair on Theradon IV had never been complete, and that the cumulative effect of the last several missions and his intense, adrenaline-pumping relationship with Spock were contributing to the young captain’s internal combustion machine.

“Any day now, Jim,” McCoy muttered to himself. “Any day now, you’re gonna blow…”

So the two people in Kirk’s microverse who loved him the most, the ship’s physician and her First Officer, continued their silent monitoring, hovering yet not quite hovering, waiting for the other shoe, so to speak, to drop, waiting for that famous straw to break the back of the eternal galactic camel.

The process of Kirk’s unraveling began slowly. It began with a certain restiveness, a barely discernable resentment of his intimate surroundings.

He continued to work out in the gym with Spock as his partner. Their wrestling matches were a sight to behold, Spock obviously restraining his superior might, serving primarily as a foil, assisting Kirk in maintaining an outstanding fighting condition and learning new moves. Kirk seemed to grapple with this, always pushing himself harder and harder against Spock, and in the midst of this ritualistic dance there seemed always to exist a frisson of eroticism. The pair of them seemed oblivious to the fact that other crewmembers working out would often closely scrutinize their matches, marveling at their symmetry and skill, yet simultaneously indulging the crewmembers’ own prurient fascination with the festering sexuality barely contained within the battle for dominance so clearly played out by their captain and First Officer.

Not content with Spock and the workouts, Kirk began to run, first using a treadmill, eventually running around the vast perimeter of the gym. He ran once a day every day for several weeks, but abruptly increased his exercise schedule and began running twice a day, once in the morning right before breakfast and again in the evening after shift, right after supper. He relished the solitude of it, and felt tremendous pride at the effect the increase had on his physique. He was slimmer and infinitely more toned than he had been in quite some time, although weight control at that stage of his life was hardly a paramount issue.

It was as though he was preparing himself for some kind of ultimate challenge.

McCoy watched, and made mental notes to himself. He also entered his observations in the captain’s medical log.

In addition to the strenuous workouts Kirk indulged in, the sexuality between himself and his Vulcan blossomed exponentially. Their already active intimate life ramped up considerably, to the point where not only were they vigorously copulating every day, they were doing it twice a day. The Vulcan would reach for Kirk early every morning, usually waking the human, and in the evening, right before bed, they would reach for one another after a protracted period of intense foreplay.

Spock began to care for Kirk in more than just a sexual sense, he was there to assist in grooming, often providing manicures and pedicures, ever ready with a brush and a cup of coffee as they bustled about in the mornings, struggling to avoid tardiness due to the daily morning quickie. Kirk took all of this in stride; he became accustomed to the personal pampering very quickly. He felt infused with love, felt cherished and for the first time in his life, felt as though in a powerful way, he mattered. He knew that he mattered as a commander, and he knew that he mattered as a diplomat, he knew that he mattered as a champion at crisis management, but he had never felt that he mattered as a person, not really.

Not deep down inside, the way he did with Spock.

“You realize, don’t you, that the two of you may already be bonded?”

McCoy brought the subject up over brandy one evening. They were sitting in Kirk’s quarters, which were used primarily as an office now. His personal gear was stored in Spock’s quarters, all of his toiletries and most of his wardrobe. They were, in effect, cohabiting on the ship. They’d switched the previous living arrangement, Kirk favoring the humidity of Spock’s cabin, although the Vulcan had thoughtfully lowered the temperature to a more tolerable level for Kirk’s comfort.

“What? What are you talking about?”

Kirk brought his head up sharply; he’d been brooding, staring quietly at the glass of Saurian brandy in his hand.

“I’m talking about the coddling, the…hovering you described to me a few days ago,” replied McCoy, gently. He looked at Kirk, noting the captain’s air of distraction.

“Why do you say that? I told you Spock and I’ve discussed bonding, but there’s no agreement as to when, or how, or even if…” said Kirk, defensively. He glared at the doctor.

“Well, for one thing, it’s not atypical behavior you’re seeing. He’s reacting to you the way a spouse would, he’s looking after your physical as well as emotional needs. His attachment to you is as strong as your attachment to him. I’d say it borders on the obsessive for the both of you, you know.”

McCoy knocked back his brandy in one gulp, and poured another glass. He offered the decanter to Kirk, who accepted, even though he’d barely touched the first drink McCoy had poured for him.

“Could that happen? Could Spock have bonded the two of us without my knowing about it?”

Kirk’s tone was hushed, his expression one of sober concern.

“I don’t think he would deliberately, no. But from what I’ve come to understand about Vulcan bonding, it could’ve taken place over time, on its own. The two of you have been together now for a little over a year, and for the two years before you…actually ‘hooked up’ you were extremely close, mentally and emotionally. Now that the thing’s been consummated, so to speak, and the frequency is regular, the bonding process may either have already begun, or actually taken place.”

The physician watched Kirk, waiting for a reaction.

“I-I don’t know if that’s acceptable to me---I mean, I’d like to know first, you couldn’t just have something like that, something as serious as that, just---happen and have no choice in the matter---could you?” Kirk stammered. His eyes were wide, more green than gold. He quickly took a drink of the brandy, ran a hand through his hair, and took another drink, this time draining the glass. He stood up quickly and began to pace.

“Jim,” urged McCoy, gently. “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Kirk whirled to face him, clasping his hands in front of him, wringing them, then abruptly turning away and resuming his pacing.

“Wrong? What makes you think something’s wrong? Just because I question something very serious between two people that should be a mutual decision, a choice, a free choice…” His expression grew pained, his face darkened.

“Do you want to talk about it?” McCoy offered, keeping the professional edge out of his voice to the best of his ability. He wanted to offer friendship now, but could see clearly that some professional counseling was definitely in order here.

“I don’t know,” replied Kirk, rubbing his hands together, agitated, his shoulders bunching up. “I don’t know…” He looked wildly around the room.

“Bones,” he began, his expression imploring the doctor for something, for guidance, for support, for understanding, for an indefinable something.

“Jim, what is it?” asked McCoy. He knew exactly what Kirk was going to say, but waited patiently for Kirk to say it.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what it is, I don’t know what I want,” Kirk sighed deeply, running a hand across his forehead. He walked over to the chair he’d been sitting in and fell into it, heavily. He looked at the doctor intently.

“I’ve self-destructed every relationship I’ve ever been in, Bones, did you know that?”

His shoulders slumped, his hands slid down between his knees and he pressed them together tightly.

“Jim---“began McCoy.

“No, no. Really. Everytime I started something, started to get ‘serious’, whatever the hell that means, I’d pull some stunt, something really stupid, anything, just to blow the whole thing to smithereens and just, just get out.” The expression on his face grew sad yet innocent, youthful.

“I chose ‘Fleet because more than anything else, it was what I really wanted to do. I wanted it so badly I could practically taste it, and I still want it, I love it, it’s me…totally me. I knew most starship captains remained unmarried, uninvolved, it ‘s impossible to effectively do this job if you’re distracted by a spouse, or a family.” He looked directly at McCoy.

“It’s a profession for bachelors, Bones.”

McCoy nodded in agreement.

“So, what you’re saying is…”

“What I’m saying is, I’m no good at relationships. I suck at relationships, I’m great as a friend, but I suck at relationships, I always have. I get a rush from the chase, the conquest, and it’s all great fun for a little while, and then I have to cut and run, supposedly not so much because I want to but because of her,” he gestured around him. “---her, the ship. There’s always the ship.”

“And now?” urged McCoy. “Now you’re involved with someone whose life has also been the ship, who has never considered even remotely being in a relationship because he has worked diligently all of his life to suppress his emotions, and repress his needs. What now?”

Kirk stood up again, paced for a moment, and collapsed into the chair again.

“I keep waiting,” he murmured.

“Waiting?” asked McCoy. “Waiting for what, Jim?” He watched as Kirk covered his face with his hands, took a deep, shuddering breath, pulled his hands down from his face and crossed his arms across his chest.

“I keep waiting to fuck up,” he replied, softly. “I keep waiting for myself to totally trash the whole thing, decimate Spock in the process, fuck up all around, and end up alone again.” He leaned forward in the chair, his head down, forehead nearly touching his knees.

McCoy didn’t reply at first, waiting, considering the right way to respond.

“Jim,” he said, at last. “Jim, you love Spock. You’re not going to do anything to hurt him, not really---“

“Oh, Bones, Bones,” replied Kirk in a loud, exasperated voice. “You don’t know me very well, do you?’ He stood up, spreading his arms out, the palms up.

“I’m the original Heartbreak Kid, Bones! James T-for tomcat-Kirk! I rack ‘em up, and I just keep knockin’ ‘em down!” He laughed, tonelessly.

“Jim, this is different. I know that, Spock knows that, and so do you, Jim. This is, for all intents and purposes, the Real Thing.” McCoy placed his empty glass on Kirk’s desk. Kirk turned aimlessly around in a circle.

“I don’t want to bond with him, Bones. I don’t want it, I can’t do it, I’ll fuck it all up, I’ll soil it, I’ll destroy it, I know I will, Bones, I know I will…” The words rushed out, nearly incomprehensible, rushing, falling, as Kirk began to suspire. Color drained from his face.

“What is love?” he reached out for McCoy. “I mean, really, Bones? What is love? Am I feeling love for Spock? Am I really in love with him, or am I just being selfish, using him for my own ends? The sex is like a photon torpedo, hits the target every fucking time, the personal devotion is…is…delicious, it’s something I’ve never experienced, ever, with anyone before…we have the same mind, but we’re still so unique, so individuated…the companionship is sweet, dependable…but more than the sex and the companionship…it’s…it’s…” He seemed at a loss for the right words.

“What, Jim?” asked McCoy, gently, reaching back for Kirk, touching him on the shoulder, peering into his face earnestly. “What is it?”

“The understanding, Bones,” replied Kirk. He looked at the doctor, eyes golden again, infinitesimal flecks of green sparkling around the pupils. “He understands me. He understands me, and accepts me, warts and all. Someone as fine and as pure, as he is. He accepts me…”

McCoy embraced the captain warmly, urging him to sit down.

“Well, Jim, that’s about as good a description of love---of real love---as you’re ever gonna find. So, what about this bonding? What would be so terrible about it?”

Kirk sighed, shaking his head. He closed his eyes momentarily, and opening them again, gazed around the quiet, dimly lit room.

“I told you. I feel like I’ll ruin it. I’ll ruin the bond, and I’ll destroy Spock in the process. I’m telling you now, Bones. I’m a demon.”

He noticed the decanter of brandy and reaching for it, put his hand down as though he’d changed his mind, then reached for it again and opening it, poured a small amount into his glass. He gulped it down in one swallow, coughing as it scalded his throat.

“Jim, what’s the frequency of your sexual activities with Spock? I mean, I’m assuming it’s pretty often, no?”

“No. It’s not often,” Kirk replied, coughing again. “It’s constant. Never ending. We’re like rabbits, Bones. Rabbits, I’m telling you. It’s like a machine that’s gone out of control. We can’t stop ourselves, we can’t even talk about it. I tried talking about it with him a couple of weeks ago, and do you know what happened?”

McCoy smiled patiently.

“Yeah, exactly. Couldn’t even finish the damned discussion without one thing leading to another” Kirk replied, somewhat ruefully.

“Which one of you is dominant?” asked McCoy.

“He is. I can’t resist him, and I end up…” Kirk began, folding his arms over his chest again.

“You end up?” offered McCoy.

“I end up getting pounded into the fucking mattress. I end up getting my brains fucked out, every single time. He practically slaughters me and I love it…I love it, I love it to death and I can’t do without it, or him. All he has to do is look at me, Bones, and I fucking liquefy. I can’t even breathe sometimes when I’m around him. When we’re on the bridge together it takes every ounce of self-control I can muster to not…”

Kirk took a deep sigh.

“…to not drop to the deck. Just drop to the deck of the bridge in front of him at his station and beg him to fuck me right then, right there in front of everybody. I actually feel like that every waking moment of every day, and I struggle so hard to fight it, to control it, to contain it…to live with it.”

He stretched his legs out in front of him and threw his head back, closing his eyes. He felt buzzed by the brandy, with more than just a touch of vertigo.

“My god, Jim,” breathed McCoy. “I knew there was passion there, but you’ve been working so hard to deal with it. No wonder you’re afraid of bonding.” McCoy’s eyebrows knit together thoughtfully.

“Is it that way all the time, Jim? Spock on top, and you…” Kirk shook his head.

“No. I’ve been in control sometimes, and it worked just great, it was wonderful, fantastic, actually, but lately I’ve just been totally consumed by Spock. Come on, Bones, at this point he’s doing everything but chewing my meat for me and regurgitating it down my throat.”

McCoy rose and stretched his legs, walking around the desk, picking up their empty glasses and returning them to the little bar in the corner of the cabin.

“If it’s any comfort to you, Jim, I’ve been told that the bonding actually stifles some of the passion, rearranges it so that the couple can go on with their lives more comfortably. That’s a strong part of the reason why Vulcans put such high emphasis on the bonding. It reduces the emotional strain on the couple, legitimizes their lives together and produces a harmonious union. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

“I don’t care. I’m not ready. I’m not ready and I don’t want it, not right now. I don’t even like talking about it,” retortedd Kirk, calmly but emphatically, before closing his eyes.

“Well, then, let me ask you this. Would you and Spock be interested in some pre-bonding counseling, then? You could do it with me, or with a Vulcan healer,” McCoy suggested. Kirk opened his eyes blearily and stared hazily at the physician.

“I’m drunk,” he replied. “I’m buzzed out of my mind, and I’m exhausted.” He put a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it.

“I see. Yeah, well, I’m pretty much done for the day myself. Go to bed, then, Jim, and get yourself some rest,” McCoy advised, smiling gently. He moved toward the door, turning to face the captain as it opened.

“We’ll talk some more, later,” he promised, watching Kirk turn toward the desk and rest his head on its surface, his arms dangling loosely down by his legs.

“Jim?”

When he got no reply, McCoy silently walked out of his captain’s quarters, feeling disturbed by Kirk’s revelations, and resolving to himself to speak to Spock sometime during the next day. He could see depression rearing its ugly head in Kirk, and felt bound and determined to intervene on his friend’s behalf. On _both_ of his friends’ behalves. For if there was one true thing that McCoy could be absolutely sure of, it was that he loved the both of them, and felt that he knew they belonged together.

They just seemed to need a little smidgeon of help that was all.

**

Several days later, McCoy found himself on Deck Five, fairly late in the evening, having paid a house call to a female lieutenant suffering from severe menstrual cramps. He sauntered down the corridor, headed toward the turbolift, passing through the Command Staff sector. As he passed by the First Officer’s quarters he could hear the sound of voices, or a single voice, coming through the virtually soundproof door. Stopping to listen, he stood transfixed, a smile forming as he recognized the sound.

It was laughter, the captain’s laughter, giddy with hilarity, high-pitched, raucous and loud. He strained to hear Spock’s voice, and caught it slightly, the baritone rumbling softly, intermittently, garbled and indistinct.

“…they did it anyway! You remember…but I kept saying…the next thing you know…Ka-bluie…” Kirk fairly shrieked with mirth. McCoy could not understand what tale was being recounted, but it was obviously one of the funnier of Kirk’s many adventures.

“..all over…the look on his face…” more explosive, high-pitched, almost girlish laughter, manic, joyful. The sound of Spock’s murmuring, then silence. McCoy cocked his ear closer to the door, but there was only more silence. The physician’s smile faded, and reappeared, deepening.

 _Ah, love,_ he thought, bemusedly, turning to resume his path to the turbolift.

Three events took place that month, in rapid succession, which lead to Kirk’s final capitulation in terms of the bond desired so deeply by his Vulcan companion.

The first was a message from Bob Wesley, just a friendly hail.

“How’s everything going, Jim? Been awhile since we last spoke---wanted to congratulate you on that Thembesian mission,” beamed the Commodore, winking gregariously at Kirk from the screen.

“Thanks, Bob. It was a struggle, but worth every drop of sweat. How’re things with you?” Kirk smiled. He and Bob Wesley had always had an easy, warm friendship, and known one another for many years.

“News travels fast through this sector of the Quadrant, Jim. You’re rapidly becoming diplomat extraordinaire.” Both commanders laughed.

“What’s this I hear about you tying the knot, Bob,” continued Kirk, still smiling.

“Oh, well. It had to happen sooner or later. Kind of broadsided me, actually, but I’m slowly warming up to the idea,” replied Wesley, pretending to wince painfully.

“Umi is a terrific woman, Bob. I’ve only met her a couple of times, but she impressed me tremendously. Congratulations,” enthused Kirk, warmly.

“Well, thanks. What about you, Jim?” inquired Wesley, thoughtfully.

“What? What about me?” Kirk replied, somewhat nonplussed, although not really.

“Like I said, Jim, news travels fast through this sector of the Quadrant. In fact, where you’re concerned, news travels fast through the _entire_ Quadrant,” Wesley smirked, and cleared his throat. “So?”

“So? What? What’ve you been hearing?” prompted Kirk, blushing.

“Only that a certain dashing young starship captain, who shall remain nameless, has hooked up with a certain Vulcan first officer, who shall also remain nameless, and that the scribes are pounding the keyboards of their history books like madmen. Why? What have you been hearing?”

Both commanders laughed easily, then became silent, quickly.

“I don’t know what to say, Bob. Weird how stories travel from one end of space to another.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? So, any truth to the stories, Jim?” queried the silver-haired Wesley, his brown eyes twinkling merrily.

“Well, I suppose there’s an element of truth to almost any story one hears out this way,” replied Kirk, cagily.

“Come on, Kirk. Give it up!” demanded Wesley, with a grin.

“I, too, was broadsided, Bob. Never saw it coming.”

Wesley shook his head in mock sympathy.

“Yeah, it’s amazing how things like that happen to us, isn’t it? Kind of scary, actually, don’t you think?”

“Yes, scary,” replied Kirk, wistfully rejoin, somber now.

“So, what’s next? Trip to Vulcan, meet the parents and all that?” asked Wesley, companionably.

“I---I already met the parents, quite some time ago. Been there, done that, it’s pretty much squared away at this point. No need to divert to Vulcan at this time,” rejoined Kirk. “What about you? How are you and Umi going to work this out? Is she going to remain your First Officer, or…”

“Oh, absolutely, Jim, absolutely. We’ve already filed for a dependency posting, been accepted, everything’s on file. First Officer Umi Thaz’ha’at-Wesley is doing just fine,” Wesley beamed.

“Wow, that was quick! Dependency posting went through just like that?” Kirk snapped his fingers.

“Yes, it sure did. The logistics of onboard cohabitation were just insane, Jim, and it’s not the sort of behavior ‘Fleet approves of. Technically, you know, it’s conduct unbecoming.”

“I realize that,” said Kirk, tersely.

“Not only that, we risked separation if we didn’t marry, and the lack of a bond was tearing Umi apart inside. Began to tear the both of us apart. Antareans, being a telepathic species, can’t bear a union without a bond. If I wanted her, I had to prove it, once and for all, and if I wanted to stay with her onboard the _Pleiadian_ , I was going to have to request a dependency posting. Period,” stated Wesley emphatically, looking earnestly at Kirk.

“I see,” replied Kirk, numbly.

“You know, Jim,” began Wesley, “when you finally, in all this crazy galaxy, find something you’ve been looking for all your life, and you want it badly enough to keep it, forever, or at least for the rest of your life, you do what’s necessary.” He paused for a moment. “Don’t you think?”

Kirk nodded, “I would imagine so.” His thoughts found Spock’s face, subdued, knowing, alight with love for him, only him.

“It’s a pretty tough call, though, Bob, you know?”

Kirk eased back into his chair. He was seated at the desk in his quarters, the cooler temperature suddenly feeling actually cold. He brought his hands up to his upper arms, rubbing them briskly.

“Umi’s culture is very old, Jim,” began Wesley in response. “Antares is a very old world, with traditions more than five millennia older than the oldest cultures on Earth. Their traditions have passed through the centuries virtually unchanged, handed down from generation to generation. Very similar, actually, to Vulcan.”

Kirk straightened in his seat.

“I realized that my continued hesitation about bonding and ultimately, marriage, was slowly destroying what Umi and I had. I knew I couldn’t even pretend to exist without her. So I gave in, Jim. I love her, and I made her happy. Once I made her happy, I found a happiness within myself that I never thought I’d ever be capable of finding.” Wesley smiled fractionally at Kirk.

The conversation continued on briefly about other matters, farewells were made and Kirk ended the transmission, remaining seated for a little while longer.

The next incident was a brief and enigmatic conversation he had with his communications officer in the turbolift a few days later.

“You really are looking rather terrific these days, Captain,” offered Lieutenant Uhura on their way to Deck Three. Kirk looked at her and smiled.

“There it is, that smile. You know, don’t you, that a lot of crewmembers are going to still want to see it, no matter where or when, don’t you?”

“Well, I hope to be smiling around here for many years to come, Lieutenant,” bantered Kirk, still smiling.

“I sure hope so. Just because you’re all settled down now, doesn’t mean you still can’t favor us with one of those killer smiles now and again, right, sir?” She smiled earnestly at him, and looking at her, he was shocked to realize how beautiful she really was. Uhura had the kind of physical prettiness that was always apparent, but her personality radiated an inner beauty that was constant, steady. It was not unusual for Kirk to feel drawn to her, aroused by her. He’d never spoken to her inappropriately, however, and their flirting was always cognizant of their roles as commander and subordinate. She was dependable, intelligent and so very, very beautiful.

He looked down into her enormous, dark brown eyes.

“Is that what I am now, Lieutenant?” he asked, his smile waning. “Settled down?”

“It would seem that way, sir. All of us think it’s wonderful. Anytime anyone who deserves the best finds the best, it just gives hope to the rest of us out here, you know?”

“Well, you know, Lieutenant, the only reason I keep him around at all is because he laughs at all my jokes,” replied Kirk, with mock seriousness.

Uhura laughed melodiously.

She was still grinning when they left the turbolift, and as they walked along and he nodded in greeting to several crewmembers he passed, her words repeated themselves in his mind.

_The best…I have the best. Yes, Spock is the best, isn’t he? But do I deserve the best?_

Later, in the tranquility of Spock’s quarters, Kirk lay thoughtful, flat on his belly as Spock massaged a mildly fragrant moisturizing cream into Kirk’s freshly showered skin. The constant exposure to the heat of Spock’s quarters caused Kirk’s skin to become dehydrated to a certain extent, and after researching human dermatology and the care of human skin, Spock had decided that a moisturizing body cleanser followed by liberal application of hydrating cream would greatly improve the condition of the captain’s skin, which indeed it had.

Spock assiduously worked the moisturizer deeply into Kirk’s pliant flesh, as Kirk became more and more lost in thought.

 _Indeed, now you truly are_ kinkur i’khazel _, my heart._

Spock’s loving thought gently intruded Kirk’s. The captain smiled, turning his head to peer over his shoulder.

“I love you, too, my Vulcan,” he murmured, gazing lovingly at Spock.

Spock assisted Kirk in turning onto his back, and continued to administer the healing moisturizer across the captain’s chest, his ribcage and his belly. He deftly avoided Kirk’s flaccid genitals and began to work the moisturizer into his lover’s muscular thighs.

Kirk sighed with a slight hum, appreciating the concentrated attention. The feel of the cream was like fluid silk on his skin, warmed by the heat of Vulcan hands. The pressure which Spock applied was perfect, neither too hard nor too light. Spock always knew, it seemed, exactly what Kirk needed.

“Spock,” Kirk began, as Spock commenced to work on Kirk’s feet, which were extremely dry and flaky. He gently manipulated the cream into the soles of Kirk’s feet, yet not so gently that the captain was tickled. Kirk was, Spock had discovered, extremely ticklish, and enjoyed being tickled, especially during their private wrestling matches.

“Yes, t’hy’la?” replied Spock, brows knitting together as he concentrated on his task.

“Does it hurt you that I’m not ready to bond with you yet?” asked Kirk, gently.

“Hurt me?” Spock stopped momentarily, and resuming said, “In what way, _ashaya_?”

“You know…does it hurt you’re feelings? Does it make you feel rejected?”

Spock continued to rub Kirk’s feet, spreading his ministrations up over one of Kirk’s ankles, then taking the other foot and working that ankle as well.

“Your toenails appear to require clipping tonight,” Spock responded, absently. “No, Jim it does not hurt me. I know that when you are ready, we will bond.”

Kirk pushed himself up, leaning back on his elbows.

“They do tend to grow rather quickly, don’t they? I think my fingernails need to be clipped, too. Must be the vitamins Bones’ s been forcing me to take.”

“Indeed,” responded Spock. He released Kirk’s foot, standing and walking over to the head. Kirk watched his easy gracefulness, the firm, narrow buttocks clad only in black briefs.

“You don’t feel like I love you any less, do you, Spock?” asked Kirk, hopefully, looking up at his partner when he’d returned to the bedside. Spock looked down on him, his face not without expression, but open, loving.

“No. I think of us as a simple, constant equation. I love you, and you love me, and that is the only truth. What is, is,” he replied, sitting down on the side of the bunk. He took Kirk’s left hand in his and began to deftly clip at the slightly overgrown fingernails.

“I would never hurt you, Spock...I mean, not intentionally, and I want to…bond with you. I want everything with you, everything this universe offers, it’s just that I don’t want to fail you.” The words rushed out of Kirk’s mouth, and he felt silently grateful that they did.

“I am aware that you would never hurt me intentionally _, ashaya_. Nor would I do anything that would cause you pain as well, certainly not with intention.” He continued to attentively care for Kirk’s fingernails, buffing them for a few minutes, then stopping for a moment looked over at Kirk.

“You will not fail me, Jim. I know that you will not, I am only waiting for you to know it as well. We cannot bond until we both want it. It is a mutual act,” he reminded Kirk. He continued to regard the captain for a few moments, and then returned to his task of providing the manicure. He took Kirk’s right hand, attended to it, and upon completion rose, holding the clippers in his closed fist.

“Now you are _vaksurik_ , beautiful, _ashal-veh_ ,” he murmured, tenderly. Kirk smiled up at him.

They spent what they liked to call “quality time” together that evening, talking quietly, reviewing the day’s events, musing about future orders. Spock retrieved his ka’athyra, and sitting in the center of the bed, with Kirk leaning against his back, nude body curled around his, he skillfully played a variety of serene ballads for some length of time.

“I would die without you, Spock,” whispered Kirk, nuzzling the back of Spock’s neck, inhaling against the Vulcan’s skin, savoring his scent, fingertips lightly stroking Spock’s ear up to the pointed tip. Kirk gently slid the tip of his nose along the skin at Spock’s nape, inhaling deeply. The Vulcan’s scent reminded him of the homemade lemonade-soaked ice cubes in the little cups the girls on the farm road near his home in Iowa used to make on canicular summer days, lightly citrine, combined with the slight fragrance of the antiseptic ‘Fleet-issued body cleanser that Spock used every day.

Kirk delighted in the silken texture of the surface of Spock’s skin, captivated by it and fairly intoxicated by the alien scent, the strange tartness laced with sweetness of it.

Spock did not respond verbally, but continued to play the lyre, the ballad picking up tempo.

They made love that night, like every night, slowly and gently, with restrained passion.

The third, powerful, moving and ultimately decisive event happened quickly and dramatically, although months later when Kirk would review the events in his mind, he realized he’d already known what was going to happen.

It started with an ominous dream.

Kirk was asleep, alone in Spock’s quarters. Spock was pulling a double shift, the second half as science officer, down in the Lab, working feverishly on an engineering formula that would stretch the ship’s energy supply until they could refuel at Starbase 7. While the ship had an adequate supply of dilithium, if there were an emergency diversion the pull on the reserves would be dangerous, and if the diversion required a higher warp speed, the pull could actually be cataclysmic. There was an alternative mix that could be safely utilized, but it had never been actually put into use before, and Spock and Chief Engineer Scott had to be absolutely certain the mix would be viable. Spock was driving himself to perfect the formula, and was confident that the outcome would be not only tolerable, but wholly successful.

It was just taking some time, quite a bit of time, in fact, and for the second night in a row, James Kirk was sleeping alone.

He lay twisted in the bedclothes, sweating profusely, tossing and turning in a restless slumber. The dream was disturbing, and he murmured aloud, anxiously, incoherently.

Spock was in danger, he could sense it, and he peered across an unfamiliar horizon, his hand shading his eyes. He looked hard for something he couldn’t define, but seeing nothing he turned to go. Darkness descended, and then light reappeared. He heard sounds in the background, but when he looked behind him, he could only see shadows. Then he heard the loud growling of an unfamiliar, unseen animal. He could smell its rank, fetid stench; its growl was too loud, hurting his ears.

He heard Spock call out his name, sharply, and turned quickly toward the sound, only to see Spock sinking to his knees, swaying, his face etched in agony. The terrifying roar of the mysterious, unseen beast bellowed too loudly in his ear and he wanted to turn to find it, but couldn’t take his eyes from Spock who was slowly falling forward, dying it seemed. Dying, and there was nothing Kirk could do, his body was paralyzed, he could only watch in horror.

He awoke with a terrible start, trembling violently. He felt that he wasn’t breathing, but then he realized that he actually was, indeed, breathing, rapidly and harshly.

“Spock,” he whispered urgently. He looked around the darkened cabin, searching. He waved the lights up, and as the room illuminated, he squinted. Sitting up slowly, he rubbed his face with both of his hands. He sat, mute and disoriented, in the middle of the bunk and lying down again, he closed his eyes. Leaving the lights on, he slowly dozed off, and by the time Spock returned from the lab, Kirk was once again in a deep sleep.

That crucial incident took place just a few days later. A routine scan of the planet Neural detected an elevated utilization of carbon, which in itself was strange since the planet was technologically backward. Neural was a beautiful class M planet with a small population. The population was divided into three groups, the hill people, the plains people and the woodland people, all of whom lived relatively harmoniously. Kirk had visited the planet over a dozen years before, on an anthropological mission, and fell in love with its sumptuous bucolic splendor and one of its residents, a young man called Tyree. They were in love the way young men fall in love, not so much sexually, but mentally, in love with their physical similarities and similar likes.

They talked, they hiked, they fished and they swam. Their personalities were completely in sync, and Tyree taught so much to Kirk about the sheer wonder of the simplicity of living, and of being one with nature.

Kirk relished the warm, soft breezes that blew through his hair once he and Spock beamed down to the surface of Neural, reminiscing pleasantly about his youthful days there. However, to his complete and utter horror, he and Spock discovered that some of the villagers from across the river were carrying weapons, flintlocks, in fact, the kind of technology, though ancient in the present day, that was far above their current ability to produce.

Ultimately it was discovered that Klingon operatives had infiltrated the population, arming one tribe against the other, seeking to throw an imbalance into the otherwise amicable lifestyle of the planet’s community, destabilizing it completely. Once the destabilization was effective, the Klingons could exploit the natives and ravage the planets multitudinous resources.

Upon completion of that ravagement, the Klingons would desert the planet, and its population would ultimately become extinct, essentially having wiped each other out by way of complete and utter genocide. It was the sort of vile, revolting scheme the Klingons employed time and time again.

Desperately seeking to save Tyree’s life, which was clearly in danger as he ambled along with a hunting party from his village, oblivious to the threat of a group of armed Klingons who were scouting them, Kirk rashly drew attention to himself and Spock, and Spock was gravely injured as a result. They quickly beamed back to the ship, but Kirk could not take the time to remain with his lover through the emergency surgical procedure that he required. Leaving Spock in the capable hands of Dr.Geoffrey M’Benga, whom Bones described as a brilliant, highly trained specialist in Vulcan physiology, Kirk and McCoy hastily reappeared planetside to continue their investigation into the Klingon presence and to seek out answers from Tyree himself.

Before anything could be accomplished however, Kirk ended up facing his own mortality almost sickening immediacy. He was attacked by an indigenous carnivore, which sounded and smelled exactly like the one in his dream. It was an enormous beast, with six inch fangs and six to eight inch claws, a biped weighing at least a ton. Its cries were harsh, deafening and the reek of its fluffy, white yet filthy fur was suffocating, unbearable. It leaped seemingly out of nowhere, knocking Kirk to the ground and mounting him, crushing him into the rocky surface of Neural.

Kirk screamed in blinding agony as the beast sliced into his upper chest with a vicious swipe of its huge claw, the flesh pierced deeply with a long, jagged tear. He saw his life flash before his mind’s eye, saw in one horrific instant the end of time and life, the end of himself and Spock, a terrifying and so deeply undesired end. As he spiraled painfully out of consciousness his only thoughts were of Spock, and he called out to him, again and again, within his mind.

Kirk did not die, however, and neither did Spock. McCoy found himself powerless to reverse the toxicity of the mugato’s filthy claws, but Kirk was healed on Neural by the wife of Tyree, a beautiful woman, a Kenutu from the hills with the knowledge of the herbs that grew so plentifully in the valley and along the mountainside. Using a strange, plump little plant called a _mahko_ root, a plant that pulsed with life and writhed with intelligence, Nona pulled Kirk back from the jaws of death and healed him completely, bonding him to her in the process.

Yet through a bizarre turn of events, Nona herself met a violent death merely hours later, with Tyree and Kirk only meters away. She was brutally murdered by men from the tribe armed by the Klingons. Tyree was devastated, shocked into incomprehensibility, as was Kirk, who empathized with Tyree very deeply.

The mission ended badly, with nothing resolved and only tragedy and horror in its wake. Kirk and McCoy returned exhausted to the ship, defeated and numb.

Kirk was blissfully aware of Spock’s total recovery, having spoken together over Kirk’s communicator while the captain was still planetside.

Kirk completed his log in his own quarters, pulling off the Neuralian clothing he’d worn to the surface, stripping down to his underwear. He leaned back in the chair at his desk, and suddenly began trembling violently. For a moment he thought it might be the aftereffect of the herbs Nona had used on him, but McCoy had already examined him and pronounced his bloodstream clear. Whatever was causing the trembling was beyond his control, it seemed, and he sat in the chair and gave into it, his legs stretched out in front of him.

Spock entered the cabin, as quietly as a cat, as usual. He noticed his lover’s distress and immediately knelt at his side.

“Jim? Jim, what is it?” he pleaded, clutching the captain’s arms tightly with his elegant hands. He peered into Kirk’s sweating face.

“What will he do? What will he do now?” Kirk sobbed, lifting his hands helplessly and regarding Spock intently. Spock covered those hands with his own, not comprehending what Kirk was trying to convey.

“Don’t you _see_?” cried Kirk, vehemently. “Don’t you _see_ , Spock? She’s gone! Nona is gone, she was all Tyree had! She was his world, Spock, his entire world, a man with nothing, nothing but this one person he loved!” He stared at Spock, openmouthed, incredulous.

“What will happen to him, now? He has nothing, _nothing_!” he spat, enraged, heartbroken, amber eyes brimful and wide. He grabbed both of Spock’s hands, clutching them painfully tight, his own hands like talons. He pulled Spock to him, and yelled mightily, directly into Spock’s face, barely centimeters from his own.

“What does it mean? How will he live? What will he do? He loved her! Don’t you see, Spock? He loved her, he loved her, he loved her!” He shook Spock for emphasis with all of his strength.

Spock remained silent, breathing heavily, his dark, glittering umber eyes never leaving Kirk’s face. He remained on his knees, hands limply by his sides. Moments passed, punctuated only by the choking sound of Kirk’s soft, muffled and barely controlled sobs.

“What’s supposed to happen? What am I supposed to do?” Kirk shook Spock again, more violently, but the Vulcan remained limp, passively accepting the violence of Kirk’s outburst.

“Bond with me, Spock! Bond with me now, right now!”

Kirk’s tone took on the inspired cadence of a madman. He squeezed Spock’s biceps, his fingertips digging cruelly into the Vulcan’s lean flesh. Spock remained silent, gazing at Kirk, doe-eyed.

Kirk grabbed his first officer by the back of his neck, yanking his face closer, smashing his lips against Spock’s with an almost senseless brutality. Spock responded immediately by opening his mouth, accepting Kirk’s harshly abrading tongue, Kirk’s hot breath blasting against the Vulcan’s warm lips.

“Damn you, Vulcan! Damn you, you goddamned Vulcan! I love you, and I need you, and I will not live without you!” Kirk yelled into Spock’s face, grasping him by the front of his tunic and urging him to stand up quickly. Spock remained pliant and passive, permitting himself to be dragged to the bunk, pushed roughly to his knees on the floor.

“What do you feel, Vulcan! Tell me what you feel! Love me, damn you, bond with me---you goddamned Vulcan son-of-a-bitch!”

Kirk tore at Spock’s tunic, ripping it from his shoulders until only the neckline remained, rending with almost preternatural strength at the uniform trousers, savagely exposing the Vulcan’s hips and buttocks, Spock’s dark, olive, greenish-brown penis rising half-erect from the ruined waistband.

Kirk unfastened the front of his trousers with lightning alacrity, barely pulling his rose-colored tumescence free of the fabric.

“You bond us now, damn you! You love me now, love me, love me, love me, you fucking Vulcan sorcerer!” he hissed, spitting into his hand and smearing the spittle adroitly around his organ. Grabbing Spock by the hair, he shoved the unresisting form face-down on the bunk, pushed his knee between Spock’s thighs, parting them hastily, and in one blinding instant, plunged his angrily throbbing cock deeply into the opening of Spock’s body, straining for purchase by pushing his toes hard against the cabin’s flooring.

Spock uttered the tiniest, most fragile-sounding noise Kirk had ever heard, his upper torso flat on the bunk, his arms flung out unresisting on either side. Kirk began to thrust with a pent-up fury, burrowing his fingers into Spock’s scalp, holding his head down on the bed. There was no pleasure in their joining, only desperation,the blackness of terror and near-crippling grief, and all of these came from Kirk, assailing Spock’s mind in a maddening, disjointed, chaotic flare.

Yet, Spock accepted this behavior with a strangely abject submission, knowing why it was happening, recognizing and accepting it for what it was.

The purging of guilt and anguish, and the shattering acceptance, finally, of what love was and what love really meant: the splendor of devotion, and the interminable horror of loss.

As Kirk turned the reality of love over and over inside of his mind, he continued to thrust into Spock’s body, knowing that he was tearing him viciously and causing deep pain, unable to stop the searing penetration, incapable, due to sorrow and rage, of climaxing.

“What do you feel, now, you Vulcan bastard?” Kirk snarled, brutally gouging his clipped fingernails into Spock’s hips. “Do you feel me? Do you feel _me_? Feel me, damn you, feel the pain I feel, the way I feel, the way I’ll feel if I ever fucking lose you!”

Kirk leaned his upper body against Spock’s back; sweat sealing them together, and sobbed, deep racking sobs, his scalding tears mingling with the salty, drenching moisture of their dangerously overtaxed bodies.

“Don’t ever die, Spock! For god’s sake, don’t ever fucking die! Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, please, dear god, don’t ever leave me!” He stopped thrusting, remaining encased but motionless, pressing all of his weight against Spock, sobbing softly.

After many long, agonizing moments, the sobbing stopped. They remained together that way for quite some time, until Kirk’s full arousal returned and he began thrusting again, but without rancor, steadily rocking against Spock, remaining heavily against Spock’s back. Spock moaned deeply and began pushing back onto Kirk’s pulsating hardness, meeting each steady thrust with an equally strenuous response of his own.

They rocked together for several moments, although it seemed like hours to Spock, but finally Kirk tensed, his ragged breathing stopped for an instant, and Spock was blissfully aware of the cool jet of Kirk’s ejaculation spurting inside of him. They lay quietly, spent, bereft, but not empty. They were together, closer than they’d ever been in all the time they’d known one another.

The truth was finally out, and it felt warm, intense, frightening yet maddeningly frabjous.

Kirk backed off of Spock, disengaging what was now the mere remnant of his receding flesh, and sank back on his heels. Spock rolled over, sliding down to lean his back against the side of the bunk, with its coverlet slipping down to the floor behind him.

He gazed at Kirk, quietly. Kirk’s head was slumped, his hands in his lap, palms up.

“ _T’hy’la_ ,” Spock whispered. Kirk did not respond.

“ _T’hy’la_ ,” Spock whispered again. Kirk lifted his head this time, looking haggard, his cheeks sunken, tear-streaked.

“I wish to bond with thee, _ashaya._ ” offered Spock. Kirk regarded him blankly.

“The bond,” said Spock, hoarsely, “is nearly complete. We must join mentally, now, as well as physically, in order for it to form perfectly.” He watched Kirk closely.

Kirk nodded, somberly. He rubbed his hands over his arms, as if chilled, and looked around the room. He peered down at himself, and smiled fractionally.

“Do you think we could get cleaned up first?” he suggested in a small voice.

Spock gave Kirk the kind of gift he rarely gave, the gift that always caused Kirk’s heart to stop. He smiled. A deep, face-creasing all-too-human smile. Standing, he reached down and offered his hand to Kirk, who accepted it gratefully and stood in front of him. They embraced then, clinging to one another as though they were recovered from a terrific ordeal, which indeed they were.

“And Spock,” added Kirk, suggestively. Spock looked down at him.

“Don’t be nice this time. Don’t be so fucking nice to me.”

He gazed up at Spock with a strangely determined expression on his face, defiantly beautiful. Spock could only hold his breath.

They showered together and Spock, as always, briskly dried Kirk with a regulation towel, and they returned to the sleeping alcove. Spock adjusted the coverlet and together they lay on the bunk. Spock caressed Kirk’s face with the back of his knuckles and Kirk gently pawed at the soft, black curls on Spock’s chest, pausing to tenderly pinch a darkly olive nub, and grip a handful of the hair and tug at it.

The petting and caressing continued and they kissed, spontaneously, passionately, losing breath, regaining it, intensifying the kissing and when breathless again, pulling apart. Kirk reached down and massaged Spock, reveling in the hardness that he discovered there, and Spock trailed his thumbs across both of Kirk’s nipples until they jutted outward, the tiny points roseate and swollen.

“What will it feel like?” asked Kirk, whispering, his eyes wide, golden and staring directly into Spock’s half-lidded umber orbs. “The bond…what will it feel like?”

“Mmmmm,” murmured Spock, thrilling Kirk to the soles of his bare feet with the familiar rumble of the baritone voice. “Open to me, _ashal-veh_ , and discover.” He suddenly grasped Kirk’s fully aroused, fiercely erect cock, squeezed it gently, and pumped it rapidly several times. Kirk moaned in surprise, and arched his hips involuntarily.

“Spock,” he whispered harshly. Spock slid his fingers around the base, squeezed again, firmly, and slipped his burning fingertips beneath Kirk’s full, heavy balls.

“Oh, god, oh yes,” Kirk whispered again, his eyes closed. He reached for Spock’s shoulders, kneading them, gripping them hard. Parting his thighs, he pulled his knees up and back.

Spock sat up in a semi-recline, and from some mysterious place (under the pillow, Kirk later determined) produced a short, wide, plump tube, which he thumbed open and squeezed. It was a water-based lubricant, the type used in medical facilities. As he generously lathered his fingers with it, Kirk smiled to the slightest degree, assuming McCoy, in his everlasting solicitousness had probably given it to Spock at some point, although it was the first Kirk had ever seen of it. Usually they used moisturizer or even the body cleanser, which was in gel form.

Spock painstakingly worked the gel all around his cock, especially around the head, adding some more to his fingertips. He canted his head, and slowly moistened his full lower lip with his tongue. He held Kirk’s gaze with his own.

“What will happen if one of us dies, Spock?” Kirk asked, his gaze riveted to Spock’s groin.

“The other may die as well,” Spock replied, sliding his drenched fingertips up and down his own shaft, settling himself between Kirk’s widely parted thighs. “Although not immediately. There is a choice involved. The organs of the surviving bondmate will instantaneously begin to shut down, but death is a choice that can be made at any time. By a prearranged agreement, a widow, or widower, can seek the assistance of a healer and their lives can be spared, if they so choose. This is usually the case for bondmates who share children. So that the offspring are not orphaned, the surviving bondmate will oftimes defer death with the aid of a healer, and re-bond with another partner at a later time. If no such agreement exists, the healer is virtually powerless to intervene in the death process, and the bondmate will indeed perish, usually within anywhere from a few hours to a few days.”

Spock placed his unlubricated hand lightly atop Kirk’s smooth belly, and with the now coated hand began to gently prod about Kirk’s opening. Kirk closed his eyes, pressing his bottom against Spock’s fingers, and opening them, looked directly into Spock’s.

“I don’t want to make a pre-arrangement of any kind,” he said, levelly. His eyes widened as Spock inserted first one, then a second, hot slippery finger.

“Do you understand me, Spock?” he gasped, as Spock slipped in yet a third digit, spreading the tiny ring of muscle wider.

“Yes, _kanbu_ , I understand you perfectly, Please relax yourself now,” Spock smoothly suggested, propping himself up on one elbow beside Kirk’s waist, undulating the three hot fingers rhythmically in and out of the now breached cavity, enjoying the feel of its tightness.

“I want to die when you die,” sighed Kirk, threading his fingers through the ebony silk of Spock’s straight hair. “Why would I want to even think of living if you were gone?”

“Yes _, t’nash-veh sha, vaksurik kanbu_ …my Own, my beautiful baby…” crooned Spock, seductively, exhaling deeply with each word. He was reaching more deeply into Kirk’s dark, musky, smoldering interior as he spoke, mesmerizing Kirk completely, causing him to relax his rectal sphincter and open more fully.

“Ohhh,” breathed Kirk, exhaling then sharply inhaling deep, quick breaths through quivering nostrils. He clenched a fistful of Spock’s hair, pulling sharply. His legs fell to each side, the knees touching the bunk, exposing Spock’s hand jutting out from Kirk’s body. The hand moved sensuously, steadily. Spock leaned close, brushing his lips against Kirk’s open mouth.

“I claim thee, James Tiberius Kirk, son of George Kirk. I claim thee forevermore, and will never in this lifetime relinquish thee, no matter what happens to either of us. You will always be mine, throughout time.” Kirk could not respond, already sailing into an altered state of wanton pleasure.

_T’hy’la, touching and touched…parted from me, but never parted…I claim thee…thou art mine…my son…my spouse…my brother…my friend…my champion…my breath…my soul…my chattel…my master…my slave…my heart…and my very life._

Spock easily pushed the broad head of his painfully rigid cock into Kirk’s dilated, pulsating hole, reassured by the rapid intake of Kirk’s breath that the breach had been accomplished, and easily, forcefully began thrusting slowly, accelerating the pace incrementally, until he could feel the moist head bumping against the spongy surface of Kirk’s prostate, causing him to moan, deep and low in his throat.

The only part of his body that Spock moved were his hips, pistoning them incessantly like a perfect machine, stroking Kirk’s insides relentlessly, stabbing alternately at the prostate with every other thrust, increasing the pressure and the speed of the thrusts, penetrating Kirk straight through to his core. The strokes were of the precision and accuracy of a well-oiled mechanism. Spock never broke the speed, never slowed or increased for the duration of their copulation, adding to the intensity of the experience by gently but persistently stroking Kirk’s shaft with burning fingers.

Kirk’s face appeared to be that of a much, much younger man, a boy in his early twenties, fresh, innocent, yearning for more, savoring every moment of this exalted joining.

Spock kissed Kirk’s nipples, his face moving from one to the other, kissing, tasting, teasing and nipping, pulling a swollen nub into his mouth and expelling it with the raspy underside of the tip of his tongue, moving to its twin and applying the identical procedure there. He deeply inhaled the scent of Kirk’s sweat, mingled with the light fragrance of the moisturizing body cleanser, inebriating himself with it, absorbing it into his memory. He pushed more deeply into Kirk’s body, causing his mate to cry loudly and forcefully, with pleasure and longing, desire and pain. In time, Spock’s thrusting became very concentrated, more intense and substantially wilder and faster.

At one point he lost control and slipped free of the fleshly harness, quickly repositioning himself and regaining the savage pace immediately. Kirk was pushing himself in a matching frenzy against Spock’s thrusts, until with a sharp, high-pitched, lighter than tenor yell, Kirk cried out.

“Spock, Spock, please don’t ever leave me!”

He ejaculated all over Spock’s gripping hand, the warm liquid seeping down the sides of the heavily-veined shaft, the head pulsing and oozing its creamy bounty to pool around the base and Spock’s fist.

Spock hunched up and leaned close to Kirk’s ear, harshly crooning in a pounding baritone, “ _Kinkur i’khaz’el_ ”---golden boy.” With that he came, one climaxing pulse upon the other, filling the musky inner sanctum with searing seed, loading Kirk’s shuddering cavity beyond capacity, until a substantial portion of the scalding fluid leaked out, pooling beneath Kirk’s buttocks and saturating the bedclothes. Spock rested his weight upon Kirk’s chest, feeling the racing of Kirk’s heart against his own chest, the sweet thrumming of it against the hollow of his throat.

“Mine…for all of this life, and the next…” murmured Spock, his lips pressed against Kirk’s cheek, as Kirk lay silent as a stone in that sacred other world where people go when they are deeply and undeniably sated from making love.

_The Best of Times_

***

“You are still somewhat stiff,” remarked Spock, trailing his fingertips lightly across Kirk’s collarbone. Kirk nodded in assent.

“I was supposed to contact Bones and try to get ahold of some more Dolodophen,” he replied, mentioning the anti-inflammatory suppositories. Spock walked into the head, retrieved something from a sliding cabinet and returned to stand before Kirk.

“There is no need. There are three that remain from the last prescription,” he stated calmly, opening his palm and showing the foil-wrapped triangle to Kirk, who put out his hand to take it.

“Turn around,” ordered Spock. Kirk inclined his eyebrows and tried not to smile.

“Okay,” he agreed, amiably enough. He turned his back to Spock, and when the Vulcan placed his hand on the back of Kirk’s neck and applied slight pressure, he complied by easing his body down to the surface of his desk, exposing his rear. He listened while Spock unraveled the wrapping of the medication, and exhaled softly when he felt Spock’s fingers gently push into his body. He remained bent over the desk, turning his head slightly to look at his bondmate.

“It’ll take a few minutes to take effect,” he reminded Spock.

“Indeed, but it will also make a sufficient lubricant. In the meantime,” replied Spock, touching Kirk’s shoulders and encouraging him to stand erect, “there are other activities that we can pursue.” He pulled Kirk tightly against his body, and tilting his captain’s chin with his warmer than human fingertips, gently kissed the generous lips.

They kissed for a long time, savoring the texture and flavor of one another’s mouths, the wetness of the kiss becoming deeper and more passionate. Spock’s arms held Kirk almost painfully tight, his wide hands sliding in larger and larger circles across Kirk’s back. After a time, Spock’s fingers rested against the small of Kirk’s back and he pulled the human’s hips tightly against his own, locking them pelvis to pelvis.

Kirk hummed in delight and squirmed energetically against his longtime spouse. He placed his own hands around Spock’s waist and firmly squeezed the lean flesh, luxuriating in the feel of the heat that emanated from Spock’s skin. The heat seeped into Kirk’s own fingers and hands, soothing away much of the stiffness of his affliction.

Spock pushed against him insistently until Kirk was backed against the desk again, and Spock lifted him swiftly, perching him atop its smooth surface. They continued to kiss, Spock tantalizing Kirk’s reddish-pink nipples, lightly grazing them with the back of his knuckles, and alternately pinching them gently and roughly, soothing them with the softness of the back of his knuckles again. Kirk moaned deeply into Spock’s open mouth, grasping onto Spock’s slippery tongue with his lips, making a loud, wet, sucking sound.

Spock detached his mouth from Kirk’s abruptly, without preamble, and gracefully slid to the floor on his bony knees, his face directly in line with Kirk’s penis, which shone at the head with transparent pre-come, bobbing gently and resolutely toward Kirk’s belly. Taking the organ between his fingers, Spock stroked it slowly and firmly, slipped his moist, hot lips around it and worked on it for a few moments of suspended splendor. Kirk combed his fingers through Spock’s silken hair, watching as his penis disappeared in and out of Spock’s mouth, finding the sight of it abundantly erotic.

“Oooh,” he moaned softly, his hips arching toward Spock’s face.

Spock rose from his station between his spouse’s thighs and standing, grasped Kirk’s wrists and pulled him summarily from the desktop, swooping him up against his chest and lifting him so that Kirk was able to wrap his legs around Spock’s waist, to be carried across the room to their bed, which was larger than the customary Starfleet issue. It was a conjugal bed, designed specifically for married crew.

Spock gently lowered Kirk to the edge of the bed, and placing his hands on the back of Kirk’s head, pressed his face to Spock’s groin.

“Do what is required of you,” he demanded in a stern yet gentle voice. Kirk looked up at him through the famous lengthy bronze eyelashes and reached to take the pulsating organ in his hands.

“Do not touch me with your hands,” commanded Spock. “Utilize only your mouth.” Kirk complied immediately, eagerly, keeping his eyes wide open as he stretched his jaws painfully wide and took as much of the prodigious length and girth of the organ into his mouth, moving his head back and forth in a steady rhythm, placing his hands behind him flat against the bed.

The longer he fellated Spock, the more aroused Kirk became. Spock’s unique citrus-like scent became infused into Kirk’s nostrils, intoxicating him. He wanted desperately to cup Spock’s buttocks with his hands, pulling him deeper into his mouth, but obeyed the Vulcan and steadfastly continued to suck, without using his hands.

At length, Spock touched Kirk’s forehead and lightly shoved his head back. Kirk released his trophy, breathing hotly against it as it swayed against his face. He sat quietly, awaiting further instructions, dutiful, faithful, and helplessly devoted.

“Get on the bed, on your hands and knees,” said Spock, as though informing Kirk the coffee was almost ready. Kirk complied with all due haste.

“I will examine you now to determine your state of readiness,” explained Spock and did so, quickly and efficiently.

“Sufficient,” he replied, methodically. He climbed onto the bunk behind Kirk, positioning himself correctly and testing the juiciness of Kirk’s opening. The suppository had completely melted down, and its voluptuous moisture spread gleaming against the crack of Kirk’s ass.

“You are sufficiently recovered from the stiffness in your joints?” asked Spock, his inflection flat. Kirk nodded eagerly, and raising one hand, closed his fist and extended his thumb upwards.

“Good to go, love,” he said rather cheerfully without turning to look at Spock.

Spock placed his hands against Kirk’s flanks and pushed in gently, entering further, breaching the muscle with just the bulbous head of his organ. Kirk inhaled sharply, gasping slightly at the stimulating feel of the intrusion.

Spock pushed in deeper, past the muscle, stretching the gateway of the sphincter. He waited a moment until Kirk stopped wriggling and fell silent, pushing in more deeply, thrusting just a bit. The thrusting increased only bit by bit, until the snugness around his shaft felt right, so that he was able to slide in and out freely, unfettered neither by Kirk’s soft gasps nor the compression of the fleshly sheath. He achieved a comfortable rhythm and continued at that pace, leisurely fucking his loving spouse with a look of placid concentration on his face.

Kirk adjusted to the feeling of fullness as he always had and began to push back against Spock’s invasive thrusts, straining to keep up the pace which Spock had set. He reached beneath him for his cock only to be halted by the strident tone of Spock’s voice.

“Do not touch what is not yours!”

Kirk halted immediately, dropping his hand back to the bed, spreading his thighs further and backing against Spock’s thrusts more aggressively.

In response, Spock increased the tempo of his thrusts, angling deeper, lightly abrading the surface of Kirk’s prostate with the head at first, and plunging recklessly pounded at it with precision and drive. Kirk dropped his head between his shoulders, keeping his eyes open so that he could watch his cock bounce woefully against his belly, oozing clear fluid slowly but steadily, which dripped down to the coverlet of their conjugal bunk, pooling there, creating a tiny puddle. He checked his breathing, which seemed to be coming faster now, and he felt a strain building in his chest. He could hear his heartbeat bounding in his ears, and closed his eyes.

“You could be sold in the marketplace, human,” stated Spock, apropos of nothing. Kirk jerked his head up, a smile playing across his lips. One of their favorite “fuck me” scenarios was that of Kirk as a love slave, sold to the highest bidder on some forbidden world. His fear of Orions had been quenched decades ago, and after all they’d been through together----death, life, death and rebirth---they felt it fitting and healthy to explore their darker imaginations, within the sanctuary of their cabin, within the safety of one another’s arms.

“I wouldn’t make a good whore,” Kirk retorted, breathlessly.

“Yes, you would. You would be a superb whore, selling yourself to the highest bidder,” argued Spock, softly, between gentle grunts. “You would sell yourself for chocolate.”

Kirk suppressed,just barely,a chuckle. “Aldeberan chocolate? Not the candies---ooooh!”

His giggling was squelched by an abrupt change in the angle of Spock’s penetration.

“Not the---candies---the little cakes,” Kirk gasped. “The little cakes with the chocolate cream in the middle, fresh out of the bakery…oh, my god, my god… good god!”

He sobbed a little and whimpered pathetically, his fists clenching the coverlet, the knuckles turning white. His back was drenched in sweat and his breath was ragged and uneven.

“I would sell myself for chocolate, yes, yes, I would, my god, I would…”

“Indeed. A little silver whore with such rare and delectable talent…” mused Spock, ramping up the speed of his thrusting, sliding his fingers through Kirk’s crisp, short curls and tugging, causing Kirk to lift his head and arch his neck. Spock leaned close to Kirk’s back, listening intently as his bondmate wheezed.

“It would seem you are going into oxygen debt, _ashalik_ , it is time for us to slow down,” he suggested, gently. He eased the thrusting to just a shade beyond tantalizing, very slow, very deep, still nudging against Kirk’s prostate, but with a far slower, gentler rhythm.

“Lay down like a lion,” Spock commanded tersely, and Kirk immediately obeyed, sinking down to the bed onto his belly, propped on his elbows, holding his head aloft, and spreading his thighs very wide, the knees bent, causing his hips to lift.

Mounting him once more, Spock continued to work things from that angle, steadily thrusting, plunging deeper and deeper with every precise thrust. Kirk continued to pant harshly, groaning tightly with every sharp lunge that Spock made, finally lowering his forehead to the bed, and hunching his shoulders, gasping loudly for breath.

“Stop moving, _kanbu_ ,” ordered Spock, sternly. Kirk ceased straining against Spock’s thrusts, becoming completely still yet wheezing furiously.

“No, no, I need to move,” he pleaded, wriggling his rear from side to side.

“Be still!” growled Spock, sliding his open hand up and down against Kirk’s sweaty, slippery back. Spock tugged on Kirk’s hair again, coaxing him up to his knees in front of Spock, still impaled, his back against Spock’s chest, his head resting against Spock’s collarbone.

Spock caressed the flesh of Kirk’s chest where the human’s heart would be beating rapidly. The heartbeat was regular, Spock could feel it, but assessing the number of beats informed him that a borderline tachycardia was setting in. The thrusting was ended, as far as he was concerned, but he could maintain his erection for quite awhile longer, and keeping it sheathed within Kirk’s cool, moist channel would pose no problem for either of them.

“My little silver whore,” murmured Spock against Kirk’s ear. Kirk took a deep breath and lifting his arms, folded them around Spock’s neck, clasping his hands together behind Spock’s head. Spock played with Kirk’s nipples for the longest time, teasing them, torturing them, finally resting his palms against them and keeping his hands stationary.

“I cherish thee, Jim,” boomed the gruff baritone, its ordinarily commanding voice cracked. Kirk continued to breathe rapidly, but his heartbeat was slowly returning to normal. “Thee are my Own, my life and my heart.”

“I’m not an old man, Spock…I’m not…” Kirk insisted, breathlessly. His dark and rosy cock stood at full attention, weeping and throbbing. Spock kissed Kirk softly against the carotid.

“No, you are not. You are my eternal treasure, my _kanbu_ ,” he replied against Kirk’s damp skin. Kirk arched his hips. Spock moved slightly within him, angling sharply to touch the prostate with all the delicacy of a Terran hummingbird’s wingtip. Kirk groaned, loudly and with soul-deep desperation, the desperation of the core of desire, unfulfilled and yearning, seeking the salvation of its center of ceaseless pleasure.

Spock slid his hands from Kirk’s nipples, down his small pot belly, which he massaged lightly, circling his hands around and around, fingertips grazing Kirk’s navel, toward the bronze and silver thatch of pubic hair, lightly caressing the straining organ that pulsed damply there.

“Oh, god, Spock, please, please, please,” Kirk’s voice was thready, wan, barely audible.

“Please don’t torture me any more…please let me come…”

Kirk’s bloodstream pulsed fiercely with the endorphin surge created by his sexually overstimulated brain, Spock’s organ inside of him flaring and abrading the sensitized walls of his rectum, overfilling it, stuffing it beyond endurance.

Hallucinating, his half-lidded green eyes stared at the empty bulkhead across the divide from their bunk, watching as his mind’s eye opened, revealing vivid colors of indigo blue, lavender, cobalt, deep yellow, and bright orange. A swirling aqua-colored mist appeared, and through it he watched transfixed as two men appeared, one human and the other Vulcan, both young, barely twenty, the Vulcan a little older. The human was lying on the ground, belly down, propped up on elbows like a lion, his hips lifted, long, bronze hair swirling in finely spun waves over his shoulders, partially concealing his face.

Yet Kirk recognized him as himself, and the Vulcan as Spock, kneeling behind the human and humping steadfastly against him, eyes closed and lips parted, waist length onyx tresses billowing wildly in the strong wind that buffeted them both, as T’Khut, the sister world of Vulcan hung red-gold in the western sky, bloated and full, casting eerie shadows upon the copulating pair on the ground, etching sharp lines about their perfect bodies, creating living, moving, undulating sculptures of them both.

The shimmering aqua mists dissolved, revealing Kirk at thirty-four, virile and beautiful, golden, pinned against the bulkhead in his quarters, the gold-colored satin tunic of his dress uniform lifted up under his armpits, revealing his naked rose colored puckering nubs and smooth pale chest and belly, Spock standing before him, sealing their mouths together in a rough, sodden kiss.

Outside of his quarters Kirk could sense, or see, Ambassador Sarek, Spock’s father, lurking, his face expressionless, and Kirk knew that the older Vulcan, who was linked to his son, could detect Spock’s craven lust, his uncontrollable desire and savage, primitive arousal, silently absorbing the information and accepting it.

_Kaiidth, what is, is._

Kirk remembered Spock vigorously masturbating him, remembered ejaculating into Spock’s feverish hand, Spock’s scalding tongue buried inside of Kirk’s ear, swirling and stabbing. Kirk’s legs buckling, able to remain upright only because of his wrists, pinned together over his head, held in the iron grip of Spock’s other hand, Kirk’s uniform trousers and briefs shucked down to the middle of his thighs. Spock covering Kirk’s mouth with his own, muffling the human’s shrill keening as he came mightily, in a shattering, brain-bursting orgasm, his deafening heartbeat thundering in his ears.

“Oh, god, what’s happening to me, Spock? Goddamned sorcerer, look what you’re doing to me, please don’t stop, please, make me come….” Kirk’s breath was coming in staccato gasps, his back arching as he felt Spock’s cock touching him infinitely more deeply than he’d felt in a long time, piercing at his tender, oversensitized prostate like the sharpened point of a blazing spear. He ground his rear against Spock’s lap, seeking a mightier sensation, and Spock generously obliged, deftly grasping the lean hips as he arched his own and pushed higher into Kirk’s supple, ample, succulent flesh, prodding against his spouse’s prostate, time and time again.

Spock continued to lightly stroke his bondmate, repetitively and in earnest. At long last, he leaned his mouth against Kirk’s cheek and whispered, huskily.

“ _T’nash-veh kinkur i’khaz’el_ ,” Spock said, softly and felt Kirk tense stiffly, urgently. “My golden boy.”

Kirk collapsed inside of his mind, pitching from a precipice of white-hot pleasure, plummeting like a meteor in an uncontrolled descent into a flaming inferno of sheer and explosive ecstasy.

Kirk made a high-timbre, short little shout, then another and another as jet after jet of foamy, warm cream burst forth from his shuddering organ, arching over his thighs, missing Spock’s fist altogether and landing with a barely audible plop on the coverlet of their bed. He continued to arch his hips convulsively long after the last of the viscous eruptions had subsided, and stopped quite suddenly, sagging back against Spock’s matted, sweaty chest. Kirk’s arms fell from Spock’s neck and dropped heavily to his sides, and Spock helped him to tilt sideways to the bunk, cradling him as he did so.

Spock manipulated Kirk’s recumbent form, easing himself out of the constricting gateway to Kirk’s body.

Stretching out beside his loving spouse, Spock rested his head against Kirk’s shoulder, listening to the bounding heartbeat slowly normalize its rhythm, and to the tempo of the beats, stroked himself surely and confidently to climax, coating his long, elegant fingers, musician’s fingers, with the hot, thick milk of his life, sighing strenuously as it came, flowing like molten lava slowly over his hand and wrist. His nostrils flared slightly as he smelled the scent of both his issue and that of his _komihnsu_ bondmate. The two scents mingled in the air, along with the chemical components of the heady perspiration from both of their bodies.

Kirk stirred in Spock’s arms, and with his eyes still closed, murmured, “You weren’t nice at all tonight.”

“I recall, sir, your explicit command that I not be,” replied Spock, exhaling in resignation. “For what else am I but your slave, existing only to fulfill your every desire?”

Spock lay back, sated at last, and gazed over at Kirk, who lay quietly dozing, spent, his breathing finally regular and even. Spock continued to regard the man for quite some time, until at last his eyes began to drift shut, and he crossed one of his long legs over Kirk’s shorter ones, and began to chant within his mind an ancient Vulcan rhyme which told of the two warriors who had invented the concept of eternal love long ago, when the universe was new and practiced it unto the current day, and would practice it forever through time, unyielding to the pain of separation, to the struggle of survival, or the ravages of eternity.

Spock eased his arm from beneath Kirk’s shoulders, in quietude sliding from the bunk, padding gracefully to the head, where he quickly took a sonic shower, and returned to the sleeping alcove carrying a towel and a soft, damp washcloth. He wiped the clamminess from Kirk’s peaceful face, gently scrubbed down the broad chest and torso, quickly and efficiently cleansed the detritus of seed and sweat from the human groin and sex. He eased the plush form onto its side and deftly wiped the fleshy rump and its interior, then calmly strode to the other side of the cabin and deposited the towel and cloth into the laundry chute.

He returned to the bunk, and lay down beside his slumbering spouse, listening to the soft, barely audible snoring.

“Since the moment your mother conceived you, sixty years ago, on Terra, you have belonged to me. I have known it always, waiting patiently for more than thirty years to behold you at last, and a few years more to claim you, take possession of you, bond you and keep you. I keep you still, and I will keep you forever more, and will never relinquish you, for even a fraction of a second,” he intoned, gently stroking his silver-haired, still-beautiful spouse across the curve of Kirk’s hip.

Spock gazed at the chronometer sitting across the room atop their desk, 2330 hours, not much time left to get a full night’s sleep. He smiled inwardly, realizing that upon awakening Kirk would be ravenous, craving carbohydrates and breakfast sweets, none of which were permitted on his diet card. Kirk would beg Spock for leniency, sweetly and sincerely, all wide green-gold eyes and long bronze eyelashes, and Spock would relent, as always, incapable of refusing anything to his human spouse.

Spock quietly recalled Leonard McCoy’s words, on Vulcan, at the reception held at Sarek and Amanda’s home following Kirk and Spock’s bonding ceremony.

“There are only three things you two need to remember, Spock, as the two of you journey through your married life,” he’d said, clasping the delicate stem of a fluted glass filled with Rigellian champagne.

“Only three?” Spock had asked drily, thinking to humor the physician.

“Yes, that’s right. Love, surrender and devotion. Remember those things, and your lives together will be nearly perfect, no matter what happens, no matter how much time passes. Love one another, surrender yourselves to one another, and maintain the devotion you’ve both always felt for one another.”

Spock closed his eyes, sinking into sleep, positioning himself closer to Kirk’s deeply slumbering form.

Across the room, in the office area, on Kirk’s desk, on the computer screen, a tiny pale blue light blinked repeatedly, as silver Standard letters formed words across the computer screen, revealing a message:

_Captain’s Eyes Only_

_Urgent Urgent Urgent_

_Top Priority_

_Urgent Urgent Urgent_

Captain James Tiberius Kirk, soon to be retired, after thirty-six years of continuous and faithful service, along with his bondmate of twenty-five years, Captain Spock, of the House of Sarek of Vulcan, son of Sarek, son of Skon, of the House and Clan of Surak of Vulcan, slept deeply and blissfully, completely unaware that in less than five hours they would awaken to one of the strangest adventures of their combined lifetimes, emerging victorious once again at its astonishing conclusion.

Praxis, the giant moon of the planet Klinzai had exploded, and the Klingon Empire found itself facing less than fifty years of remaining existence.

The wisdom of diplomacy, tempered through the fire of love, would be that savage world’s only hope. Hope, the thing with feathers, might yet fly again…

***

 _Hope…is the thing…with feathers_. --- Emily Dickinson

**Author's Note:**

> _This story first appeared in slightly altered form in the printzine anthology, First Times #62, in 2008 under the name Jeanne Marie Sosa. The zine is available from www.merrymenpress.com._


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